The Final Goodbye. 

I soon came to imagine her as a butterfly
An ethereal beauty whose brief visits
Would lead to tearful departures, leaving me to wonder if this was the final goodbye

My mind became obsessed with the stolen days where she would appear, as if by magic
Followed by the long, wistful hours
Of her absence

Thoughts would drift to tragedy
Surely she would be here if she could?
Her beautiful wings had been clipped!
And now she was lying alone in an isolated woodland trying desperately to fly again

It tortured me to think of her in pain
And I? I was impotent
Imprisoned by foolish infancy
A state wasted on a wretched imp!

On good days, I would permit my musings
To wander into sunlit fields
We would sit together and count the daffodils
She would tell me of her wild ways
And I would giggle while pretending to be shocked and dismayed

She would display with pride the picnic she had thoughtfully prepared as I had slept
Her excitement was contagious
I loved to see her smile and feel her touch as she pushed the wisp of golden hair away from my eyes

There was always something to pull me back
A harsh voice or a rough hand
“Stop with the daydreams, Fanny Ann!”
Once back in my reality, I would come to my senses
Where I had seen sunshine and daffodils 
There was only rain and empty dreams

I never did see her again
She always remained a butterfly
And I?
I cannot answer your question without it bringing tears to my eyes
And I cannot remember our final goodbye. 
Clare Kinnaird, 2025.