Yellow Butterfly

Golden and yellow, we glide between her rays until we can no longer.

This week I’ve had the pleasure of travelling around a little. First to the big smoke, aka London Town and now I find myself on the shores of the Adriatic. Needless to say, I’m both inspired and distracted. But I couldn’t keep my hands off my keyboard, and this is a short window into my initial thoughts after arriving at this sun-kissed spot.

They are here for a few days, just a flutter of time, a passing breeze carrying a new scent, here, then gone in a moment. They arrive with tired eyes and leave with sad ones, for they don’t belong here; this piece of land is just a vibrant flower anchored in a sea of blue. It’s a place to marvel at, somewhere to remember, a place of opulence and ecstasy. Neither sustainable nor nourishing. They arrive as we do, flying in from above and falling gently onto the velvet petal awaiting them. There they rest a little, consuming the bounty of their imaginations and sleeping in its shade before the next of their kind comes to replace them.

Here, in this land next to the sea, springs trickle down the hillside sniffing out the coast, and their voices do the same; guided by the winds and rock that rule this land. We hear their admiration, songs, and laughter fall as if gravity pulls on the tail of their words. 

Some we not only hear but see. These are the ones who look back at us with curious eyes, wondering if they’ve ever seen something like us before. 

“They don’t have these at home."

“Look at their colour!”

It’s our colour that draws their eyes the most because they are right; we’ve never been to their homes, not once and never will we. There’s only one place we call home, flying from one petal to the next on our hidden hillside. We are family, popping in for a visit. They cover our faces with kisses and fill our bellies. Welcome, they say, it’s been too long. And it has; a lifetime has passed since we’ve had petals to rest on and sweet nectar to taste. 

The Sun has come back to us again. She's the inspiration for the familiar blossoming colours. She brings her usual perfume too. A mixture of salt water, wildflowers and the fragrances of the forest. It’s now that we thrive, changing our appearance like those who visit us do every few hours. But for us, there’s only one colour we choose to wear. It’s the hue of life, of the warmth that gives us wings and plants petals. Golden and yellow, we glide between her rays until we can no longer. Then in a prayer to her beating down from above, we bring our wings together, taking our final resting spot on the drying ground below. We will be back, as another, flying under the same golden rays and visiting the same fragrant family. And although our bodies are never the same, our colour remains constant, fluttering between petals and dancing in their perfume. A yearly tribute to the sky and she who warms our land below. It’s a world that repeats, that is, other than the faces that come and go, watching us fall and grow. And the voices that hide from us.

Love, Luke