A Butterfly in Winter

This is the title of a poem by my late Farther (I have copied the poem in the description) and when my daughter gave me this trinket for geocaching I thought of his poem straight away. Let see where this journey takes this little butterfly!

A Butterfly in Winter

The weather closed in on the desolate moor;
I shivered and trembled, and tried to ignore
the growing feeling of fear and dread,
of total fatigue, and the danger ahead.
I'd set out at dawn on a foolhardy whim
to traverse the moor though the outlook was grim.

Poorly equipped and quite unprepared.
I soon paid the price of the undeterred.
Lurching in circles on a high plateau,
shielding my eyes from the blinding snow,
conceding at last I was hopelessly lost,
cursing my folly and counting the cost.
Then all at once came a sight so rare,
that I stopped in my tracks, and paused to stare:

Swooping down from an Arctic sky,
came a vibrant , snow-white butterfly!
It hovered briefly above my head,
then with beckoning wings it flew ahead:
"Come with me" it seemed to say.
"Come with me, I'll show the way".
What could I do? I had no choice
but obey that enigmatic voice.

Hour after hour we searched for our goal,
but the desperate journey had taken it's toll,
my strength and resolve had all but gone,
along with the will to carry on.

I sank to my knees and closed my eyes,
and dreamed of the moor on a warm sunrise,
of summer days and tranquil nights,
a final peace, my last goodnight.

I was dimly aware of a voice in the air,
low and persistent intending to scare:
"Get to your feet and boldly defy
this pitiless moor. Wake up! .... or die!
I opened my eyes with an effort supreme,
and made my escape from my troublesome dream;
Now I was back in the world outside,
and once again I followed my guide.

An eternity passed as it scoured the moor
until at last, in the gloom it saw
the distant lights of a wayside Inn,
safe at last, and my prayers begin.

My outstretched hand reached out to touch
my tiny guide, whose heart was such,
it fought the awesome moor, and won;
its journey was over, its task was done.

Then, it suddenly paused, and without a sound,
fluttered down to the icy ground,
there it lay, and I was sure
those fragile wings would fly no more.

And now I'm left to ponder why
that gallant, gentle butterfly
should give me life, and meet its fate
on a snow-swept moor .... a season late.

A poem by Samuel John Tointon