One summer I’d a plague of them –
they looked so pretty in their red and black
I didn’t mind them fluttering round
but then I’d find one on my pillow
or leaving smears across the panes.
The boldest liked to totter on my finger
then take me under her wing –
it was lined with finest satin
which she unfolded like a sheet.
For months she hung around the window
till a gust or rumour took her off.
I remember the smooth curve of her back
and how she’d tumble from the bed
to fetch up madly wriggling on the floor
helpless as an overturned coracle.
