Let’s be direct: Beautiful Demoiselle.
What naming could be apter? In noon-light
a sliver of midnight blue comes spinning
from Hades’ palette, frailly fluttering,
a butterfly blue from the underworld.
Yet not quite: no sheer lepidopteran
makes this skittery, whirligig descent,
achieves in repose such sleek elegance.
He rests like a svelte blue pin, superbly
singular, wings deep-dipped in indigo:
pure concept lodged brilliant in spinel.
Such exquisite difference brings profound
gratification, a joy extinguished
in the homogenised world we fashion.
When I dream I’ll drink some of his lustre,
bask in the resplendence of my colours –
what flagrant beauty then in dynamism,
such glory mirrored in heaven’s dark glass.