29 Jul

2014 Runner Up – Lynn Roberts

Flying home

They start to rise. Below me, from the clay,
the pupa cracks and flexes sodden wings;
its presence is as fugitive as day –
only the shell has substance; earth still clings
to the shed husk, but it has birthed a frail
and evanescent thing, a cobweb sigh
of gauzy mist, a fine translucent veil,
crumpled as petals opening to dry
in the pale sun. But as it dries it blows,
a galleon billowing on cloudy air;
it takes the wind beneath its wings: it flows
and sings upon the current’s turning stair;
opaline, nebulous, it curls and goes
in a bright shower of sussurating prayer.

Lynn Roberts