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Cabbage White

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.


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