The Travellers

There's hundreds, or thousands, or millions perhaps
of butterflies moving with purposeful flaps.
They're heading north-eastwards – they don't question why
they're streaming on steadily high in the sky,
or flitting through treetops. Some rest in the grass
then onwards they travel, for hours they pass.
They're all going somewhere, all flapping along
enticed by directions in lorelei song.
These travellers are heeding a call eons old;
they fly over paddocks, as landscapes unfold
then see some place magical they've never been,
and recognise landmarks that they've never seen,
but know in some way that they've reached journey's end.
They'll fold tattered wings as they tiredly descend
to leaves that were waiting – all falls into place;
they'll lay down their eggs to continue the race.