Curator of Butterflies
Quelle: Spotify
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.
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