From Table Mountain, 1200 feet, five valleys
Slopes of fields enclosed by English planted hedges
Verdant, lush, rain soaked: summer has finally turned green.
The clouds shadows pass across the sky bringing deluge
These drowned months have kept the butterflies away
In the cloudy darkened corners of the farms
Their wings are silent.
As every gully floods, streams as torrents flow, so my daughter walks ahead
She skips off from the path
Her long hair platted
Over the hood of her hoody
Her long legs darting
She clambers up the overgrown slope, then stops
“I don’t want to get my hands dirty”
But, she must reach the top.
The teenage cusp.
In sunlight passage rushing up
Her smile is of a little girl
In shady moments, keeping clean, the woman appears.
The slope is climbed.
The hands remain clean.
The cusp remains unnegotiated.
My butterfly daughter has certainly appeared
Her unrivalled beauty, objectively observed, and
Her force of nature flying endlessly
From waking to sleeping
Her power of immeasurable depth
Both statuesque like her physique,
and knowing like she plays games,
but also limpet and ungroomed around the edges,
blend in this space, this mass
of her unquenchable being
only this light a butterfly
could sit so long
between these complex worlds
and still be happy.
Wales, 20th July 2012