‘The Clockwork Butterfly’ and Other Poetry by Keith Robson The Society April 7, 2016 Beauty, Poetry 3 Comments The Clockwork Butterfly When I was a child, and my dreams were of gold I always believed everything I was told, My faith was implicit, my innocence pure And magic existed, of that I was sure. My old uncle Arthur was always in bed His twinkling eyes sunken into his head, He told me his stories of dragons and elves That lived in the books on his library shelves. On the table that stood at the foot of his bed Was an old leather box colored purple and red, And the lid was embroidered in threads of maroon With the soft shining face of the man in the moon. I asked him to show me what rested inside And he said ‘ Press the button, and open it wide!’, Then up from the box, with a deep whirring sigh Rose a magic mechanical gold butterfly. It fluttered its wings as it gently spun round Its beauty serene in the absence of sound, And I was entranced by its magical flight As it bathed in the flame of the candle’s soft light. As I lay in my bed with my head in a dream I still could imagine the butterfly’s gleam, So I made up my mind to go back the next day To watch the gold butterfly flutter and play. But when I got there, the old house was in gloom My old uncle Arthur was gone from his room, And even though mother had tried to explain I never did see uncle Arthur again. That night I slept soundly, in dreams of delight At the dawn I awoke to the morning’s first light, And there on my desk, by the side of my bed Was an old leather box colored purple and red… The Shaman In a corner of forever, on the shores of once before there’s a house that’s built with shadows, with an ever open door, and inside, a silent Shaman carves his driftwood statuettes with no though about tomorrow, for the sun there rarely sets, though his dreams cast many images that wander through his eyes he feels only slight emotion, and he never feels surprise, and sometimes as the hours unwind, he gets up from the ground then walks outside to feel a breeze that wanders without sound. As his footsteps touch the evening’s end, he contemplates the shore with the patience of contentment, he could wish for nothing more than he wanders through his chapters with the gift of second sight as he feels the pages turning to the early morning’s light, then the Shaman in his wisdom counts the blessings that he knows from the seashells of forever to his far off mountain snows, He feels such a sense of freedom as he looks up into space, And it shines with such perfection from the eyes within his face. The Shaman walks back slowly, trailing scattered silver songs for he knows that he is happy, and he knows that he belongs to the corner of forever in the land of once before as he chuckles at the morning sun sprites dancing on the shore, then he steps inside his heaven, where he starts to carve again and he gives each statuette a mouth, so that they can explain why the reasons for existence are such plain and simple things and the Shaman nods his head to them, before he softly sings… Keith Robson, 69, is a poet living on the Northeast coast of England. Related Post ‘Not Every Morning’ and Other Poetry by Anne Jan... Not Every Morning Not every morning is as this one, calm excitement for a future brought by change, so many years’ hard work to wrought fro... Tell the world:FacebookTwitterTumblrPinterestRedditLinkedInEmail 3 Responses Evan Mantyk April 8, 2016 The first poem is simply enchanting! Makes me want to read King Arthur and forget my troubles. Reply Jennifer Morgan April 13, 2016 High compliments, your poems are lovely and seem effortless. Reply justin March 15, 2017 How can i reach Keith please? Contact info? Reply Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email.