Late butterfly
Basks in opportunity’s
Cloudless blue.
Dew-cold shadows creep
But in the light
It’s still summer.
Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016
Late butterfly
Basks in opportunity’s
Cloudless blue.
Dew-cold shadows creep
But in the light
It’s still summer.
Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016
The season turns
On the imperceptible
Reddening of the hip
And the spider fattened
On the line, apparent
In clear September-time,
And leaf-fall’s tiredness,
Its threadbare
Tattered drift towards gold
And matter shed,
Released in the crispening
Of daylight.
Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016
Stem in its natural turgid curve.
Chin lifted by the sun.
‘Be my reflection,’ says the sun.
‘But be a flower, first and foremost.’
Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016