<\/p>\n
Papillon<\/strong><\/p>\n Peppered with the tarmac grit I remember clear as dreams <\/p>\n <\/p>\n 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 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-10523","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10523","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=10523"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10523\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10524,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10523\/revisions\/10524"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=10523"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=10523"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=10523"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nThe stubby childish fingers made
\nA prison for white wings,
\nThe futile green-veined flicker
\nPlucked from estate dandelions
\nNot Papillon<\/em>, but pieris napi<\/em>
\n<\/em>Helpless in the coarse pink clasp
\nOf the wrong hands.<\/p>\n
\nThe black proboscis severed and
\nMy first grudge borne
\nAgainst your clammy palms that
\nDropped limp wings on to the gravel
\nNot understanding why you did it
\nNot knowing you were crushed
\nIn bigger hands.<\/p>\n
\nShani Cadwallender<\/strong> 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\u00a0\u2018fierce ending\u2019.\u00a0 http:\/\/feelingintowords.blogspot.co.uk\/<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"