Ulysses

"It's a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;"

                                                John Masefield


The butterfly stained with velvety purple and flaunting circular blotches of gold, two on each set of the wings, had graced our porch that evening. A butterfly or a moth? Someone's curiosity needed an answer. Its slim, smooth and longish body with antennae  concluding in bulbs presented themselves as ample proof leaning in favor of the former. 

The butterfly with its dazzling wings, flapped and fluttered, paused awhile on the blank wall, casting a restless shadow. An efflorescence of alienation and anxiety emitting from this winged critter held the dull evening in thrall of its stroboscopic rhythms. A fat gecko, stilled by its own innate huntsmanship eyed it intently. Someone played god and shooed the gecko away. 

The cashew tree swayed vigorously responding to the sudden gust of wind, and a cool waft overthrew the oppressiveness weighing upon the stale air of the tropics. A gale, someone exclaimed. The sound of thunder followed by lashing rains had everyone scampering inside the house for shelter. It was amidst such chaos that they saw the purple butterfly leave the safety of the porch and take off. Above the trees it rose, above the pall of darkness they saw it flit,  to mingle with the savage beauty of the storm.

A foolhardy spirit or just a hardy fool? No, a spark of raging fire. Unstoppable now.



Comments

Sofie said…
What a poetic romance. Grasping the essence of nature. Reading you makes me so happy. THANK YOU
November 18, 2022 at 7:01 AM
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