Like the fugue, or like the 12-bar blues,
a form with endless possibilities.
A Cabbage White
Andrew Motion
Transported by a sudden gust of wind
not felt by anything except itself,
a butterfly, a Cabbage White, blows in
and dithers through my yard considering
is this the place to rest, or this, or this,
and in the process fastens with a thread
I cannot see the drowsy flower-heads
each to the other and in turn to me,
until a second gust of wind arrives
and lifts it through my fence and out of sight.
Which leaves the yard exactly as it was,
except that now a sense of emptiness
insists a moment of my life has passed
which otherwise I would not think to miss.
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