The buried butterfly, a poem by Isobel Dixon

My iris purple skirt�
its silky swish�
was packed at first for partying in

but then the destination changed:
I checked in for a flight
towards his final journeying.

In that petal furl, with a beaded
butterfly to curb its wrap,
I helped to carry him,

a coffined husk,
across a patch of rocky ground
to dusty burying.

At last, a rest for him.
For me, the hollow pit of grief,
a body's emptying.

In a new uncompassed north
I dug a hole beneath a tree,
through softer soil. For memory,

these seeds: a bauble
and a photograph, snatched flowers,
the match's halo-ing.

There it must lie still
no longer winged:
just a scatter of beads melted
in the earth, and a rusted pin.

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+ Who she is: Isobel Dixon bio
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Isobel Dixon