Monday, saw the silky shroud
in suspension
from a twig,
billowing gently
like the tendrils
of a fragile cloud.

Next Monday following,
still suspended there,
I reached a finger out,
cautiously,
and marvelled at it's covering
all interlaced and woven
from the finest hair.

Then Tuesday evening,
David Attenborough on TV
waxing lyrical about
winged and irridescent creatures,
that struggle to emerge
from chrysalid captivity.

Wednesday, impatience overwhelmed me,
I could see the quick way,
armed with a small blade
I sallied forth,
to snip and cut, to unravel,
to set this wonder free.

You would have done the same,
I know you would.
To see the movement once,
oh, and then again,
of coloured wings unfolding,
freed from cocoon night,
unscrambling now for flight.

It now appears,
slowly dragging itself
from the raped and shrouded casing,
a thousand hues of rainbow.
The sleep was short, rebirth premature,
Emerge now butterfly,
embrace your freedom,
give the world elation.