Red Admirals in Shropshire

Borne one after another into the high white room,
the butterflies would keep me from writing poetry …
Flames rimmed with jet, they flicker against rafters,
glass, as if flight could take their bodies anywhere.
Some, tiring, raise wings under-patterned with bark.
Once cupped, released, they sheer away with pent-up speed,
one paired with another freed moments before, to trace
a mutual tottering path through air with no glass veils,
white cages … By evening, room and hillside hold
no sign of them; the last of summer is a balm resting
on eyes and skin; my hands remember their dry flutterings.