Papillon
Peppered with the tarmac grit
The stubby childish fingers made
A prison for white wings,
The futile green-veined flicker
Plucked from estate dandelions
Not Papillon, but pieris napi
Helpless in the coarse pink clasp
Of the wrong hands.
I remember clear as dreams
The black proboscis severed and
My first grudge borne
Against your clammy palms that
Dropped limp wings on to the gravel
Not understanding why you did it
Not knowing you were crushed
In bigger hands.
Shani Cadwallender lives in London. Poetry runs in the family, so she has been going to readings since before she could read. She is published almost nowhere, but Seamus Heaney once said a poem of hers had a ‘fierce ending’. http://feelingintowords.blogspot.co.uk/