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

Perfect markings

Her force of nature flying endlessly

From waking to sleeping

Her power of immeasurable depth

The character

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