Curator Of Butterflies

She likes to walk
Down the lanes to the fields
In the woods, she finds a stream
The water feels cold
In the cup of her hands.

Down among the trees
She spies butterflies
Against the leaves
With one brush of her hand
They are captured and taken.

From the top of the hill
Looking over the edge
So far out of reach
Further and further away.

She likes to see
All the colours of the wings
Beneath the glass
Then she turns down the light
To keep them from fading away.

She likes to walk
By the stream down to the shore
From the source
To the sea.

Looking over the edge
Where the sky meets the waves
So far out of reach
With just one step
She'd be free
With one bound
With one leap
A part we all play
The end is the start
Is the place.

Where we came from.

Looking over the edge
Counting the waves
Follow the faultlines
Up the side of the hill
The marks of an ancient sea
You can see the traces.

At the end of the hedgerow
Out of the field
Looking over the edge
As far as you can see
Under the ordinary light.

She loved the colours of the wings
Against the green
The first thing she saw
The last she hopes to see
The parts we play
The start the end
And everything
Everything in-between.

She likes to walk
By the stream down to the shore
From the source
To the sea.

Looking over the edge
Where the sky meets the waves
So far out of reach
With just one step
She'd be free.