image by google.
I am bereft of butterflies this summer, where there is an abundance of white wings, the orange, red, yellow, brown, black dots, swirls of peacock, admiral and fritillary are rare. The buddleia’s starflowers only ghosted by last years memory of their spindle legs and proboscis tickle. The paradise for an angel’s wing has quickly turned to brown, their tips vacant of wing beats. Summer has tumbled over with heat and dry earth, the hills at Carrbrook are black, sootdust barren from a blaze of fire. I feed goldfinch with black seeds and they come back every year. I plant blue scabious, penstemon and lavender to entice the rarest of wings and bees come back; but I am bereft of the adonis blue, clouded yellow, lulworth skipper and painted lady; they are far away from here.