THE BUTTERFLY DIDN’T ASK

Was it a surprise, offence or shock

to the poor caterpillar

minding its own business

crawling on its belly

step by tiny step, its many feet getting confused

like sticky glue - got stuck.

What’s this? 

A hummock in everyday?

Just something to creep under, over or around?

Keep going/moving/doing

quoth its innards -

slowly turning outwards

to its dismay and disbelief.

Hormones doing their thing?

What? Me? No way!

I am a self-propelling creature,

sure of my Direction, Purpose!

I need to eat and crawl about;

No-thing can BE me, but me!

Thus said the butterfly

whilst grinding to a halt 

as it’s alchemistry got underway - forsooth.

Dead, you’d think?

 Or atleast fully stuck.

But there was magic in the air - a cellular uprising underfoot,

a mutational agenda 

which is often secretive and hugely slow;

but on occasion, at last minute - a tipping point,

a happenstance so transfiguring

that no-one, let alone the caterpillar, could believe what their eyes beheld:

until they did!

airborn aloft, a flicker of colour in wispy, dancing flight:

 a drifting feather, a slippy sunbeam -

something otherworldly

born out of slimy guts to airy light.