Paul Gerard Reed


The Butterfly


In the tranquil arms of a Sunday morning
Over the grassy hills there
The first warbling song of the skylark
Hung sweetly in the air;
The first Peacock butterfly
Gazed sightlessly from eyes of blue
No longer shielded under dreary wings of black
That have been closed all winter through;
Resting for a brief passing moment
To take in the world serene
On green stems now tangling and thrusting
Through the dead straw in between;
Knowing that your time has arrived at last
Your patience to reap it’s reward
As the gentle Sunday breezes rustle
Your hiding place in the sward

Submitted: Monday, April 07, 2014
Edited: Monday, April 07, 2014

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