Brimstone

A balmy day in February, A flash of yellow's all I saw, A welcome harbinger of Spring – A paper bird upon the wing. By name, a brimstone butterfly, So apposite, its sulphur hue Glows brightly, fresh, upon the eye, Light as a feather it flits on by. I watch it settle on a briar, Presumably in search of food, In vain – the rose-hips glow like fire : No flowers, no nectar, just bare wood. Fluttering on it sails away, Skipping a lively wind-born dance. I fear it may not last the day Unless it finds some sustenance.