Purple Bliss

White butterflies flap around the plump blooms of a buddleia bush, heady on nectar and a rush of perfume from the thick clusters of purple flowers. They seem quite drunk, roused in number to swarm this beacon of pleasure. Held within a cloud of ecstasy, they are reluctant to leave, wings hiccupping in short flights never far from the next feverish sip of an ambrosial brew. Some are carried off in their bliss, wings waving goodbye out of the grinning beak of a bird. Others just wear out, never troubled by questions of why.