Image by Linda Davidson
Oh, moth you are not a butterfly,
indeed – you are not.
Eclipse is a group of you,
many varied species,
more than a hundred and fifty thousand,
to be sure.
Hummingbird, Sphinx,
Garden Tiger, Giant Leopard,
Comet, Peppered,
Wax and Diamondback
all have one thing in common,
names belonging to you.
Mostly nocturnal are you,
active during twilight.
Camouflage is one of your defences,
avoiding detection from hungry predators.
Enjoy your time as a moth,
your life span is brief.
Your body is wide, thick and hairy,
sensory hairs you could boast.
Then there is your feather like antennae’s,
and your amazing sense of smell.
Not to mention your exceptional vision,
eyes with hexagonal lens.
You love to flutter and fly,
with earth tone-coloured wings,
though there are exceptions to the rule,
moths clothed with adoring colours.
Mothing, is a wonderful pastime,
time to watch and observe.
You are not a butterfly,
indeed – you are not,
you are a moth!
Photo from Pexels.com by John
June said: I liked that the photograph prompt had creatures on it and it inspired me to think of what it must be like for a caterpillar to change its mode of transport when it transforms. I placed this poem over a photograph of a butterfly. I wanted something about the right length so the photograph and words could balance. It is fun making poem/photograph creations. For playfulness I spelt the word travel out at the end of each line.
I took this photograph at the Botanical Gardens.
As for the last line, my teenage son recently was studying a Dylan Thomas poem so I thought it would be fun to echo some of the lines.
‘Do not go gently into that good night.’
Dancing the tune of the breeze
She lifts her coat sleeves –
And freezes as if in prayer
To breed in the shady leaves;
Green confetti in air.
On the rib-case underneath –
A waxy seam of leaf,
Tiny eggs, colour of cream
Are stuck with butterfly paste.
Blue lady lifts as a dream,
Leaving them, to hatch or waste.
Who knows where she goes
Blue butterfly mother?
I am geometrically perfect
I am several hues of blue
I quiver on a perfect arc
My ovals three times two.
But wait, there is another
Oval, perched out on a limb
Is it meant to be my head
On a body oh, so slim?
My head, if that is what it is
Is a different bluish blue
Am I really me, have I fluttered have I danced
Or am I but an icon, something digitally enhanced?
Meg Mackey
Dancing the tune of the breeze
She lifts her coat sleeves –
And freezes as if in prayer
To breed in the shady leaves;
Green confetti in air.
On the rib-case underneath –
A waxy seam of leaf,
Tiny eggs, colour of cream
Are stuck with butterfly paste.
Blue lady lifts as a dream,
Leaving them, to hatch or waste.
Who knows where she goes
Blue butterfly mother?
by Di Bates
Dancing the tune of the breeze
She lifts her coat sleeves –
And freezes as if in prayer
To breed in the shady leaves;
Green confetti in air.
On the rib-case underneath –
A waxy seam of leaf,
Tiny eggs, colour of cream
Are stuck with butterfly paste.
Blue lady lifts as a dream,
Leaving them, to hatch or waste.
Who knows where she goes
Blue butterfly mother?
Australian Children’s Poetry 