Len Webster's 'season Of Butterflies' Poem by Len Webster

For years the number of butterflies dwindled
But this month, coinciding with the greening of the garden,
They returned, unperturbed by our arrival,
Stirring thoughts of all those years ago
When they whirled around the old house,
Their spirits clothing the day with colour.

PEE SEU they're called here - clothes of spirits
Or spirit's clothes,
Butterflies by a less sickly, more romantic name
Suggesting the inevitable transformation
From howling flesh through to crawling infant,
Falling toddler, and upwards on a rising scale
Until, after the stooping and uncertain footing of old age,
The release of the soul into the unknown.

Spirit's clothes are above all this,
Flickering their airy ways among the flowers
Or landing on a stem or leaf,
Unaware of their fragile history and destiny.

I remember one, big as a bird,
Entering the old house and wearying itself at a tricky window
Before taking second wind and finding release
Through the ever-open door.

Many who populated our world then have gone,
Passed through the door to that world of spirits
We may perhaps visit in our dreams.
I know the names of some - those closest to us -
And have offered food to keep them
More content in the afterworld
That is always present, so people here believe.

The world there must be so overwhelmed with spirits
Some are sent back in newly-coloured clothes,
To re-populate our daydreams in this diminished place,
Creating hope anew in hearts emptied by the certainty of loss.



-CHIANG MAI