a man taps at his computer
he might be writing anything,
no-one asked him to write this poem
which he does not yet know himself
it makes as much difference
to the world as the wing-beat
of a single butterfly
deep in the heart of a distant jungle
but for those few intrepid
explorers of the jungles of the mind
who read it
with indrawn breath
as beautiful as an unknown
species of butterfly
flaunting its vivid wings
in a rare shaft of sunlight
timed to their visit
through the canopy of trees
high above the living jungle
that balances, without telling, the whole planet –
earth, trees, rain, sunlight, leaf-fresh air,
space; and the song of birds
angel; butterfly; poem;
winged in beauty
thus disguised