Cabbage White

I don’t care that they’re pests.
I don’t care that their bunching little
Caterpillars munch their way collectively
Through tons of brassica each year.
It’s just that when red-handed
At the washing-up I see
Through the splashed window dancing,
Above the lavender, white whirls
Of light-shot wings and watch
The way the purple sprays tilt
Under the feather weight
I want to laugh out loud and ask
How ever, how on earth
I could have known.
 

by Damaris West

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