Snorkelling far from the shore,
I saw a pair of yellow butterflies
fly past, tracing
uncertain patterns
over the lurching mass of salt and spray.
They seemed to dance – were dancing –
on the surface of the waves, hovering
in wait above the lapping water.
But what for?
Not for me.
Not for their usual dose of nectar.
Were they there for the fish?
For the smallest ones with greenish fins
that flitted and shimmied upwards en mass
to kiss
the underside
of those same waves?
Who knows what secrets were being shared
there, at the cusp of the sky
where all was blue.
I paddled gently, treading the cool water,
listening carefully with one ear in,
one ear out.
For just a moment,
I could almost hear them whisper.
