Karol 25215Posted: March 10, 2015
I met a man in Marrakech from Manchester.
He was Polish.
He told me how the red-legged storks that reeled high above the Medina walls
Nested in his home town in Poland,
Migrating to spend their winters in Morocco.
There was a certain poetry to his tale I felt
That made me smile.
I told him how the delicate Painted Lady Butterfly
Flew from Northern Africa and Spain
To southern England every year
To breed and to die.
© p ward 2015