The Lepidopterist

Not meant for constraint

Her words struck me

Like a murder of butterflies

The gentlest kill

Brushes to the lips

And a dusting to each cheek

Beautiful, some called it

A delicate touch

Then like the chrysalis

She’d emerged from

She vanished

Winter coming early

The season of chills

Yet, still, I searched

And found her cocoon

Her empty husk

Lodged in my dreams

With the memories of others

Empty, they dangled

Just butterfly echoes

Lost in time

Tinkling their own tunes

Never mine

Citrine Dreams


The day still held a sharp residue of summer, a citric tang. Memories of those early years picking lemons off the trees, how it felt like holding the sun, sneaking bites then wrinkling our faces, a flood of yellows past washed over me like an August storm. They were hot those yesterdays, so very hot.

Memories resurfaced of times forgotten. I could almost taste the sweat rolling down my face again. It used to tickle at my lips and then hang like a mountain climber scaling an overhang waiting for gravity to do its thing. Next came the choice: lick or shake? I always licked; it was a salty temptation.  

I was young, innocent, untouched by the dreams of others, instead, dwelling in my own. Life was good. Citrine was the colour of those dreams and I missed every one of them.