a hollow log of deadwood,

cave-in full of leaf mould,

home to generations of tiny horrors,

a fossilized image of former splendour

living a kind of life

after a kind of death,

outside time,

unaffected by seasons

yet painfully aware

of every tick and every tock.

Shafts of virgin sunlight

pierce the glowing haze,

sear away the negligee,

bind the dryads until dusk.

Night surrenders all to day.

A butterfly dances in a beam,

dressed in golden, molten honey:

grace and beauty,

lighter than a feather,

breathtaking choreography.

Can a log hold breath?

Can a hollow log,

outside time,

conceive of the urgency

in a brief life of beauty?

Can a log wish so hard

that the grass around it scorches?

Can a butterfly hear that wish,

or does she simply, lightly, land

and kiss the smiling log to sleep?

Gently, evening draws a velvet curtain

Over the ticking earth.

Mist issues from the soil

and playful wisps caress the dryads

until even they notice the hush, and still.

In a hollow log,

in a pocket of leaf mould,

new life has been born.

A seed has been planted:

a buddleia seed.