Bread and butterfly

Alice observes the plate
of bread and butter, wondering
if this is her destiny –
to sit, in a series of comfortable
rooms, quiet and still,
sipping tea from thin china cups,
translucent as her own hand,
crumbling madeira cake, fruit cake,
victoria sponge, the bland variety
that only emphasises sameness,

and all the while
glancing under downcast lids,
sideways, out at the summer garden,
where butterflies stop and start
above the tumbling roses,
and the crisp cut shadows
lengthen imperceptibly
through the long, sleepy afternoon.

Alice observes the plate
of bread and butter, dreaming
one day of breaking out
of this chintz covered chrysalis,
where time is kept, well preserved,
in a glass cabinet – she’ll
spread her wings, gaudy and gauzy,
knock over a tea cup
in her careless haste,
leaving the gold stain
seeping across the white cloth,

and fly high, over the garden wall,
away to where smoke
smudges the horizon.


Another ride on the Magic Mushroom. I am enjoying playing with Alice. It’s an open prompt. I’d love to see what you write.