23 AUGUST 2003, Page 29
Looking for Lines
A drift of butterflies — filigree flakes of snow — hover above dark ivy over my garden wall, searching for nectar.
Advance, retreat, advance: in triple or quadruple time they pirouette and polka, testing uncertainties — trying new dances.
Are they the unwritten words — tentative but persistent — which flutter in my head hunting hopefully for lines to land on?
If! hold my breath perhaps one may pause ...
... settle on a leaf and metamorphose into verse?
Mary Sheepshank
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