Wherever You Are

The tone of this week’s poem and the tone of this week’s song might seem to be at odds with each other, but the idea for this poem came through really strongly while I was listening to the song (‘World War Now’ by Kreator) so I hope you enjoy this one despite the contrast. Letters seem to pop up a lot in my poetry (off the top of my head, Love Letter Penned By A Pining Princess comes to mind), often the handwritten sort–they just have that poetic feeling to them, I suppose!

First Poem In This Series: To Witness, To Behold, inspired by ‘Sowing The Seeds Of Love’ by Tears For Fears

Previous Poem In This Series:

Wherever You Are

It is not quite a butterfly,
in the same way a bullet
is not quite an omen–
too fast, bullets,
to rival ravens and cracked glass,
and this, too slow,
too inanimate, too papery,
to ever be a butterfly.

But still, as she sets it down
and takes up her needles again,
nestled between cornflower blue curtains
and the crackle of a satiated fireplace,
and the ink, looped so lovingly,
begins to dry… Well, perhaps
it believes itself to be a butterfly.

After all, it has heard tell
from within the writing bureau–
it knows to where it will fly,
as all the others do:
she only writes to one place,
now, saving her fingers
for hobbies and unconditional love.

She sends it off with a kiss,
and perhaps the trail of a tear,
entrusting it to the perils
of a home-grown, red-jacketed footsoldier,
and then the tank that stops for petrol
before arriving at the compound,
opening hours comparable to lunchtime,
and then…

Nearly lost in the sea,
nearly torn in the air,
shuffled and stained,
cold yet never alone,
creased and wrinkled;
and where does it end up?

Does it matter?

As soon as another hand,
the right hand,
grasps it, shreds the envelope,
doesn’t even spare a glance
at the carefully applied stamp–

It is tear-stained, and perhaps muddied,
but now, the condition is immaterial.

Whether on Earth, whether in the stars,
whether in the deepest pits of Hell,
lit by lakes of glowing, bubbling blood
and the glinting of pitchforks,
it will always find that hand,
surer than a bullet, softer than an omen,
and for a moment, there is no distance at all
between the cosy fireplace, the clacking
of knitting needles, the sun-bleached curtains,
and the glistening eyes following a calloused finger
as it traces every loop, every dot, every cross-kiss.

It is not quite a butterfly, but its journey
is as fluttering, often seemingly random,
and its appearance is as sweet, cherished,
even as the ink smudges, and the paper fades.

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