Dry leaves bouncing along the lane in the breeze,
dancing like butterflies.
This morning winter spoke to me
but they were my words,
given to me by my eyes,
a trick of metaphor.
This morning on a lone lane
winter leaves became summer butterflies,
somewhere lost in Retiro Park.
They tell me it’s in Madrid.
But it could be anywhere
when you are not with me.
(From the novel “Melancholic Avenue” © Aneurin Gareth Thomas 2019)
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