The girl skipped off the swing
and walked away.
That swing is moving still;
caught, I thought at first,
by a slow wind.
But its twin, the swing
next to it, is dead still.
I think that I’m lost
in the sky, the leavings
of a butterfly;
eyes upon the ghost
that once was a girl.
4-5 September 2015
thank you for lovely comments. glad to be here
“the leavings of a butterfly” – another exquisite poem, Mark. Glad to see you here.
This is beautiful, poem, Marco, and that swing in the mind’s wind is now moving in my mind. A gem of a reflection, the very leavings of a butterfly’!