Butterfly

A passing butterfly.

Soon it will be crushed by the cloying fingers of time,
Disintegrated into the mists of indifferent memory.
It will pass, as even now it flutters out of reach,
Beyond the lovelorn caress of human eyes.
Soon the embrace of winter will sweep it away,
To bleed its gentle colours into ice.

Still for this moment it is beautiful,
Even innocent, bright fingerpaint colours
Soft against the fading summer sky.

Tragedy lies in the belief that butterflies can last forever.