miscellany

Wiggle my fingers and try to find some butterfly words for you, to warm the winter freeze and let some light in, crack the dirty grey wash of the clouds a little. A distraction, a diversion, a nothing, a something, an offering; a tiny shy, gift.

Outside, the birds in the branches flitter, and twitter and hop to and fro in the wind. I like to think that they do small talk in the weather, the same as us. The coldest winter since when, the old folk, fresh water, best feeders, oh, it's so cold, should have migrated, the Spring. But more likely it's all survival and territory, things we have forgotten, instincts lost through lack of need.

The trees are our friends though. So sad we've lost sight of that too. Even the colonials knew about the value and beauty of trees, and planted them on this land that wasn't theirs, so they stand today, long outlasting the empire. While kids in council estates swing out of them, hack them down, burn them, carve them up. Can't bear to see such evidence of life in the midst of concrete futurelessness. How sad, to grow up without a favourite tree, without the comfort and shelter of your arm around a strong bough, bark pressed against your face. A hiding place, a franchise.

And soon it will be Summer. There will be soft green grass, an oak tree, blue sky, and the sun filtering through the green canopy. And before that Spring, with the masses of tiny glowing leaves paintbrushed onto the beech trees, against the smooth silver bark.

And we'll walk, hold my hand, through dappled sunlight, under green ceilings, through storybook woodscapes, spinning tales in the warm day.

want some butterfly animation?