Shimmers

The heap fluttered under the softest breeze

autumn leaves yet too heavy to fly off

a shapely pillow for a dead lover

The heap the colour of sunlit prisms

everchanging, reminding of summer,

blanket sprawled on the grass on a field day

The heap seemed to laugh, or breathe in, and out,

stilllifeness bursting out of the canvas

unrequited bouquet smashed, then bundled,

The heap a myriad dead butterflies

once a lover’s most precious sentiment

now snubbed, and wilfully left to the crows.