Last year was vintage.

But this year’s long, cold,

soaking spring left the garden

deserted, something missing.

 

No caterpillars for blue tits

to feed their young. We’ve

waited all this time, until July’s

heatwave, for them to come.

 

Even now it’s mostly whites

flittering about, perhaps

a wandering comma; the odd

gatekeeper, speckled wood,

 

no sign of holly blues. They’ve

been locked down, too.

But o, it lifts the heart to see them. 

Butterflies, something to believe in.