Beside a seaside cottage in Maine,

I waited with the patience of the earth

for the rumoured chipmunks to step out

from a stand of maritime firs

and on a broad expanse of coastal rock,

perform for me.

Which is how I happened to be there

when a flash mob of monarch butterflies

took to the stage for a top-up of milkweed

before the next leg of their cycle

in Venezuela.

Perhaps the chipmunks took second billing

or were bumped to third when a pod

of whales staged an impromptu spouting

out in the bay. Either way,

I wasn’t there.

The regular buskers in these parts –

a singing kettle-and-coffee ensemble,

their tinkling teaspoon accompaniment

and drenching aroma, their siren song,

had called me inside.

Besides, my gratitude cup was brim

full of that down-pouring of butterflies,

their black wings appliqued in orange

and edged with precise white spots,

the job (no doubt)

of thimble-fingered embroiderers working

double shifts to be ready in time for curtain up –

the same dedicated team (it occurs to me now)

who embellish the night sky with a stitchery of stars.