Butterflies and Dandelions

Butterflies and Dandelions

Along the winding paths to school,

hand slipping through hand,

we brushed through hedgerows,

plucking dandelion clocks,

with me more or less lost, feather

bent amongst gypsy heathers,

mottled white and scarboro fair.

Insects eavesdrop our childish debates;

which clock has the best tick-tock,

racing the other to blow the seeds

gentle parachuting the summer breeze.

Soon spent with hardly a sneeze,

a huff, and a puff and blown down

by one boy’s effortless smile;

one grown up’s nostalgic frown.

Arrested a red sunset specked ladybird

nested between bramble leaves,

tickles your little fingers as it weaves.

Count seven spots with fledgling pride,

your age is daubed on its back,

amongst a flash of orange dawn,

cracks crimson casing and it’s gone.

Flights of cabbage whites, red striped

admirals, flitter in soft streaked mists

amongst cuckoo spit sun kissed;

you split and dash, trust to guile,

rush the road with brash glance

wayward, rebellious unruly smile,

hands stretched to clutch at chance.

Futile, for they simmer and evaporate,

scatter skywards and separate.

So I walk across and take your hand,

full of righteous ticking off, but calm

chuckle, I’m not yet too old to run.

But I am, you know, I really am.

At the school gates, up heels, butterflying

vanishes, blonde tousle headed grin

amid other seeds that catch the wind.