I donít care that theyíre pests.
I donít care that their bunching little
Caterpillars munch their way collectively
Through tons of brassica each year.
Itís just that when red-handed
At the washing-up I see
Through the splashed window dancing,
Above the lavender, white whirls
Of light-shot wings and watch
The way the purple sprays tilt
Under the feather weight
I want to laugh out loud and ask
How ever, how on earth
I could have known.
by Damaris West
Yes, caterpillars - the pesky little
beggars, they're slave to the dictates of nature; ugly today, for beauty
tomorrow. I liked your kindly thoughts towards the crawlies, a patience
before they took to wing. I was always in the meadows as a boy, watching
their metamorphosis; from ugliness to airborne jewels of beauty.
Read the story behind this poem
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