Jesamine in June

Waters the nasturtiums –
clambering, climbing –
seeking freedom
from the willow-weave
of their hanging-baskets

and there – upon the lawn,
a Cinnabar moth
of cherry red – so delicately
painted; triangles and tiny dots
of brownish-grey...

It trembles on the rich,
green sward...hesitant
as to which way to go next...
each quiver – a breath.

She bends down – gently
cups it between her palms;
starts to run inside – show him
her find. Until

she remembers;
‘old habits sure do
die hard’, and loneliness
hangs in the air
like a bulging backpack –
heavy on her shoulders.

Spreads wide her hands...
Would that she could
gaze on it forever
like the rosy cheeks
of a child

yet in the blink
of an eye she follows
its thin, crimson line
become as one with the sky
and with whatever
lies beyond... maybe

to come to rest
by a fountain
where diamond-drops
sit silent on red tulips
in Versailles.