Cabbage White Copyright © Richard Whiting 2010

She seeks out the leaf’s under-carriage;
Plants her eggs;
Dirty-yellow, festering futures
Of greed-ridden destruction.

Hiding in us all;
Chance; waiting to pounce,
To gorge gently, or rush
Across our veins like fire.

In the cool of evening
Admirals, peacocks, tortoiseshells
Leave the buddleia branches bare;
Colours fly like memories
Into the coming night.

My mother watches them go.
She cannot count them
Or recall their summer vibrancy.
With a last push of her abacus beads,
Counts her blessings.

I play truant from her dementia;
Think of her cancer-stricken friend;
People for whom the seeds of chance
Have grown and had their fill.
When will they find me out? When will they stir?

From the hollow of my self-pity
I see a friend
Burying a second son
With a grief I cannot comprehend.

In the debris of my doubts
I clear a corner of five minute’s calm;
A moment not about me.
I sink carefully to my knees
And find myself at prayer.
At once it becomes apparent that
I am giving thanks.

I am actually giving thanks.

The Cabbage White flies over the fence.
I have a notion she’ll be back.