The Butterfly Moon

The butterfly moon is not a moon per se, rather, a moment in time. A release of magic upon the sky. Those few minutes where a bejewelled night begs for more and those who watch her weep. 

It begins with the moon.

She rises high, like a breaching whale who forgot to turn back at the waves. The gentle, titanium giantess flies, flies, sweeps into the sky to float as effortlessly as a child’s forgotten balloon. There she hangs. There she gathers the energies of the universe, brightens, lightens, burns milk-white. This is seen. She is always seen.

They appear as coloured raindrops falling up, not down. A few at first, the shoal gather pace. Vermillion and emerald, sapphire and citrine, wings flap and feelers feel. The moon gleams all the whiter.

They swim rather than fly. The moths and butterflies, for the two are inseparable on nights such as these, flitter and flap their way towards an obsidian sky the stars have vacated. They have bowed down to their celestial mistress, as have the spinning galaxies themselves. This night is aflame in the vivid colours of nature. Oh, what a joy for the milk-white queen.

The little ones circle her as a tide of fairy lights. They bob up and down as if blown by some unfelt solar wind around their cosmic Christmas tree. So pretty. So exquisite. The moon is, of course, the crowning jewel upon its topmost heights. This is what it has waited for, our moon. One moment in forever to truly enjoy the view.

She weeps silver tears at their passing. She fills the oceans, rivers, lakes, ponds, and the liquid souls of those who watch in awe through open curtains. Alas, it does not last, but the best things never do.

They do not fly down, but take one last farewell lap and head off into eternity. The moon waves each one goodbye. 

As do we.

Never forget the little ones, they’re just as important as you or I.

Thank you for reading

Richard