Tag Archives: butterflies

Cat and the Butterfly

Cat and the Butterfly

My present interest in nostalgia
I take as a good sign.
It means I have not lost my memory
and like to keep my roots in line.
The music I liked best in my youth
has stood the test of time.
You cannot beat a good tune
welded to a decent rhyme.

As I look out my kitchen window,
I see clouds shift and pass,
sparrows pecking at sunflower seeds,
and a black cat sat on the grass.
I watch it glare at a butterfly
that flutters by the shed.
Like a winged twig it rises
above the black cat’s head.

That cat will never catch that butterfly
but that cat does not know that.

If you live near a volcano
you hope it won’t erupt
in an avalanche of lava,
sparks and smoke, lethal and abrupt.
It would chase away the tourists,
scar the land and choke the air.
You don’t want to feel a shudder
when you’re climbing up a stair.

But one thing is certain,
that cat will never catch that butterfly
but that cat does not know that.
No, that cat does not know that.




There was poetry in pobs.
Simple meal my mother made
when I was ill or when
there was no porridge or Cornflakes
in the larder.
A few slices of bread, cut into chunks,
sprinkled with sugar, boiled in milk
in a pan, heated to hot but not to boil,
then poured in a bowl,
to be eaten with a spoon,
the blobs of pobs sweet, swollen, tender.
It is now my belief, not good for the teeth,
but good for stomach and tongue.
Never could taste now as good as they did
when I was young.
As paradise as a Pendleton’s ice cream on a stick
on a summer’s day in Southport seashore town.
There was poetry in pobs,
partly because I did not have them often,
and they did not pour from a box,
bought at the shops, but were home made.
They were forgotten until eaten again.
They were rare, a treat.
Perhaps people ate pobs in England in the war,
when there was nothing else to eat,
I am not really sure.
And there was poetry in cabbage white
and red admiral butterflies,
flitting about in the back garden,
we tried to catch in jam jars,
and nets on the end of yellow canes,
when the sun bid us all to play,
and in the curling of caterpillars
under rhubarb leaves,
even blue bottles butting against the kitchen window pane,
knowing it was all right for insects feel no pain.
There was poetry in rainbow rings,
really smears of oil, leaked from the engines
of motor vehicles, lying in puddles by a pub car park.
Come to think of it, there was poetry in many things,
and there still is.

Cyril the Caterpillar

Cyril the Caterpillar

Cyril the caterpillar
crawled slow, from stem to stem,
cool as any cucumber,
for nothing bothered them.

Wondered when his wings would sprout,
as blue flies batted by,
he would give a rhubarb stalk
to be a butterfly.

Lord Sabastian Spider
wove webs beneath a leaf,
all insects were scared of him,
though with no sting or teeth.

Cyril woke up one morning
with twin wings on his back,
flew away a butterfly,
soon master of the knack.

Mabel Moth was proud of him,
said he flew fine with grace.
Impressed old Clive Centipede
with cabbage in his face.

Cyril winged high with Wendy,
above the river reeds,
merry to be butterflies,
at home among the weeds.

Loved Wendy since a larva,
glued to the grassy green,
more now he flew beside her,
she kept his instincts keen.