On these little balls of radiance are the butterflies flitting away and leaving you without a doubt that they are really happy. Black bodies with bright white spots , a loud shade of red separated by a black border from the yellow that must belong to the marigolds and has the habit of dripping in to these vibrant wings.Then the shades of black mixing with the yellow and the red around a bright white speck, the black playing around the islands of colours, swirling around and forming the best lace ever. The butter cup joins the party and this must be a riot of yellow for in it’s flitting and floating it sprinkles the yellow from its wings onto the yellow of the marigold and it looks like this is where all the yellow came from, it is small and the wings are yellow with small red spots on the periphery so small that you have to stoop down to notice them, the flit about in pairs and the go in knotty circles around each other, the adjectives attached to these things are so jocund so happy so jolly, it would seem like all of the happy English exists because man wanted to talk about them. There are these butterflies whose names I do not know but who have managed to gather some of the blue from the pale blue flowers on to their wide wings which have the finest lace in black casing it. They flap once and then don’t for sometime, and all this while they float on the breeze and sway with it as if there were not a care in the world, they too have black bodies and white specks on them, I look closer and I see their black thin snout busy among the petals burning with yellow, the vibrant black on the blazing yellow looks like it belongs to the heavens.
Lunch calls, I must head back, and while I’m on my way, two buttercups do a knotty flit around my leg.