Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme

Every February I wait for the butterflies.
Perhaps they are bearing roses

On their colourful backs. There they are dancing
Like fairies in a thyme field; it must be the flowers

Growing wildly. They have surely come a long way,
Why are they bearing nothing?

Where is my cambric shirt, my acre of land –
They have disappeared between the salt water

And the sea strand. All that hangs are roses,
A dull red to celebrate with.

Love, how boringly it waits – I am not the patient kind.
The beauty of butterflies is momentary; they are empty-handed nonetheless.

Yet softly they dance in my garden, for a thousand years,
Until the scent of rosemary awakens me.