Swallowtails

My cousin shares an early memory,
his first of Nature, in the Alps one year –
his Mum, excited, showed him butterflies,
which swooped around him in a dizzying blur

of black and gold. He recalls their whirring wings
in harmony with her familiar tones
as she provided their name. It’s Swallowtails,
remembered, maybe, from the ancient tomes

our grandad owned. And now, three days before
her treatment’s due, he swipes his keyboard aside
and Analytics gives way to Art. The forms
of insects soothe and then, once placed in lines,

ready him for the months ahead, the pain,
through hope she’ll see their swallowtails again.