by Liz Trew
Mountain Pride the brown butterfly lands on my red coat
thinking I’m a flower.
He loops away down valley then spies the flaring reds
beside the dark water –
demure virgins of the dance hall
waiting in flared skirts for a partner.
He lands lightly on a petal unrolling his tongue
to sip her nectar
while she douses him with a shower of pollen.
There he goes, carting and collecting yellow sacs of pollen
fluttering from flower to flower
to put out the fire.