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  • Writer's picturePaul Jameson

Painted Eye

Light. Pretty. Soft flutter of wings in flight. Strange flight. Funny misshaped meander. Colourful, up, down, round and ‘bout, this way, that, ne’er seeming to go in one direction yet leading me on. Ever on, down through shadows of trees. Lost and yet found, a butterfly, by me. Follow glint of silvered fire, purple hues, kiss of gilded light ‘bout painted eye; downhill by tree and through fern, thick green light, the nettled kiss as hurts my hand.

Tingled sting.

Care not.



In green silence and follow on the butterfly. Birds watch. Magpie. Raven, ragged of wing. Woodpeckers bright. Squirrels too. Stag and doe, fawn, together; dark eyes as see my run and say nothing of it. Stand quiet. Silent shadows in t’ trees, and loud I laugh in lost thought, let e’er the steep carry me down from off a high escarpment. Faster. Ever the faster. And wild I run. Lose control. Laugh insane. See only the butterfly ahead. Pretty. Swish of fern and breaking stems as I crash on through. Laugh at legs as might go no faster and follow where e’er a butterfly leads; its playful flutter, round and ‘bout, up and down; e’er the down to where trees end and white light shines. Blinds. Swallows now the butterfly, its painted eye, and me.

Care not.


Into light.

And let it take me.

Head and face, arms, neck, legs, torso, all fall away, peel away, fade, and I see only wings of light about me. Warm. Enfolding. Blinding. Beautiful. A painted eye. And me.

(By Paul Jameson, 31 August 2022)


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