The street outside is cold and grey
While the air inside is humid, heavy,
Full of water drops and a sweet scent:
Trays of orange slices line the path,
Which are nibbled silently.
I try to listen carefully:
Is that the gentle flutter of wings in the air?
Behind leaves and on branches,
Or high up in the air,
We observe the fleeting lives
Of colour, warmth and beauty:
The elusive winter butterfly.