The silver-spotted skipper, that rarest butterfly,
Emerges from its cocoon in mid-July…to flutter… fly
Through the grasses deep upon the downland Heath.
Sheep’s-fescue thrives on chalk-filled soil, black and white, beneath.
Such beauty is short-lived… finite… discrete,
For the graceful butterfly (part of nature’s evolved elite)
Will soon bid adieu – a seemingly hurried goodbye.
For, in two months, it will surely die.
All beauty is but briefly bright; a trick of nature’s light
That enthralls with her beguiling looks… to entice… excite,
But yet is a shooting star that will rise but surely fall.
As beauty fades, reality invades, and the superficial becomes banal.