My late-summer caterpillars are butterflies now, struggling from overwintered chrysalises, crumpled wings expanding. Departure impatience explodes into vibrant colour as they cascade up like wind-flung blossoms, dancing joyous against the infinite cornflower sky.

One lingers fleetingly on my finger, sumptuous wings spread, sunning – before she’s soaring to meet the spring.

Deborah writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.