Butterfly Summer

They swarm around the buddleia
In numbers I've not seen before.
Peacock eyes on fluttering wings:
Each bush is home to at least a score.

They wander inside through the door,
And flap around our ears.
We find them dead upon the floor.
It's sad enough for tears.

People complain the pavement's blocked,
So the landlord's man goes in;
The bushes are quite harshly cropped,
And the butterflies grow thin.

The weather turns to gray and cool.
The insects are all gone.
With summer's end I feel their loss,
As Autumn's chill draws on.