Are you a dark moth from a silk cocoon,
the flower wanderer of the midnight sky
who drinks from honeydew beneath the moon?
Not so, you are my Lady Butterfly.
‘Of writing well, be sure, the secret lies
in wisdom, therefore study to be wise'
but what is wisdom how can it be got?
It is not learning; cleverness it's not;
The rose that scents the summer day
and flaunts her colour to the bees
knows nothing and has naught to say;
her only talent is to please.
The bracken and the mountain ash
cleave to an open shaft;
a dropped stone makes a distant splash
as if a miner laughed
‘I was told by Socrates'
said Plato once to Aristotle
‘Something called the axolotl
dwells beyond uncharted seas'