‘Mum Loved Butterflies’
© Joe Canning 2016. All Rights Reserved.

Soapy water cleansed the tea stained cups as;
I looked over a window shelf of fresh daffodils.
I hummed, “I’ll take you home again Kathleen”.
My mother loved that song, but she would sing it.

It was a fine day, a good to be alive day, sunny.
The conference pear ripened and the damsons too.
Sweet were the smells of the season in my nostrils.
Bees went about their business on the musical wing.

My youngest dried my cutlery and my old willow plates.
She asked a thousand questions as she wiped.
At the foot of my garden I saw the old wooden bench.
I told myself again, that I really should get to painting it.

My mother sat there on spring and summer days, knitting,
she threw crumbled crusts to old ducks and clucking hens.
Our old cat Benny would try to sit on her lap but was dissuaded,
I can see him yet, huffing with that insulted look and angry tail.

I thought, “I should paint it today. She’ll look down and smile”.
At one with nature and creation she was transfixed by butterflies.
I think they knew, they settled on her flowered apron and basked.
The cat looked on but wouldn’t dare move, old Benny knew better.

We set to our task. My little one carried the brushes, I the paint.
It felt good walking down that path, it had been a while since I visited.
We talked, I told her my news as I renovated her knitting hideaway.
A butterfly settled on my wrist. I felt a kiss. Was it a butterfly? Hmmm!

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