Pages of the Sky

The whole highveld is bathed in butterflies,
so many that its almost a sin to turn
to my screen rather than watch
them simply float by.

Perfect conditions have culminated in more than
a million pilgrims passing today alone,
the midsummer migration of these white-winged
Pioneers playing out in streams of soaring
life spilling forth from Shepherd’s Trees
and their home in the ancient Kalahari,
as if the surface sign of their silent flight
were not enough for the heaviest heart to hear
and, hearing, hurry into air and light
crying, “Leave! Now! Fly now!”

The revolution is at hand for those in love,
which is every lost and lonely soul.
Let go your burden and be with butterflies,
become a part of this white river in the sky
sweeping its way back to a distant sea,
knowing it is not migration, but the one way
journey that will end in endless depth.

Like Belenois aurota
we are born in air, fly to death
and just sometimes are known
to gather in great numbers,
giving thanks for every flower
along the way.

Traces

They only fly one way

In concerto