By Elizabeth Rogan


A prolific bougainvillea 
in High Street pink
like a ghetto Hermes scarf  
she blushed, covered the shame
of the cheap concrete bricks 

In childhood frivolity 
as tall as the handle 
of the Hills Hoist  
I ran
oblivious to the gravel 
that was course like 
poppy's straw brows

A pickled nostalgia
Fermented sweet
I smell the memory
I feel the serrated,
sun scorched grass 
on my succulent feet 

Nanny hosed the garden
the weary breeze sighed
my peripheral interrupted
by a powder black
flap, loud, like a 
Palm in the wind

An immense butterfly 
Soft and black, flap flap!
with orange and white spots
and lace like wings, flap flap! 

The nectar of space
between Nanny and I
swallowed my scream
The wings orbit 
with obsession
and supposed 

The butterfly pursued
a potent presence
My vision blurred 
by terror 

A blunt interruption

"For God's sake Elizabeth " 

Nanny sighed with the breeze

"Its just a butterfly... silly girl!"