Chalkhill Blue

The Chalkhill Blue butterfly ascended from the sunny slope in the garden. Like a leaf, it floated towards a pair of open glass doors, its tiny shadow stroking the freshly mown and occasionally threadbare lawn. As if by magic, it slipped between the gap presented by the two doors and our Chalkhill Blue was suddenly inside the building. Stunned to find itself in a children's room, it sat for a while, spellbound, on the bookshelf, next to Jacqueline Wilson's 'Cliffhanger' and Francesca Simon's 'Horrid Henry's Wicked Ways'. Just then, a five-year-old boy wandered in and our butterfly remained perfectly still, quietly watching as the boy rolled out a small plastic drawer from beneath his bunk-bed and unearthed a small brown rubber band. The butterfly watched further as the boy, unaware of the small creature's presence in his bedroom, pulled the rubber band back, dangerously so, then let go: laughing as it sped through the air and smacked against the patchily grubby white wall. Upset by this, aesthetically disappointed, the butterfly took its leave, took flight, flying into the sitting room instead. There, suddenly alive to the fresh reality, it parked itself on a small wooden table. The table was crowded with drawing instruments of various sizes and colours, and the butterfly watched as an eight-year-old girl drifted through, contemplating another cartwheel, and an artist to the butterfly's immediate right knelt before a picture as if in prayer. That is strange, thought the butterfly to itself, the two figures in the picture, though small, are familiar. And then it dawned on our butterfly that these were indeed the two little people in the flat. Anyway, there were many such pieces visible in the room - art work, mirroring itself, everywhere - and each piece looked braced as if for the elements, as well as an important visitor. Meanwhile by a nearby round red table studiously sat a man by a laptop. At this very moment, the butterfly took to the air - the Chalkhill Blue, that is - and landed bravely by the man's laptop. It looked at the screen, which was glowing and looking faintly nuclear. 'Chalkhill Blue', it read on the screen, the light blue of its wings already itching to take flight again: 'Males congregate on animal dung.'