In the springtime of her youth Deep in the countryside of France She emerged on a warm day in May, Unfurled her beautiful wings And set out to explore the world Full of a youngster’s joie de vivre, Not yet a real grown-up lady Encore une jolie jeune fille. The days grew longer, the sun grew hotter, More and more restless she grew. In her breast stirred the urge to travel: Fly North, fly North, an instinctive call. Across the sea she flew, undaunted, Over the waves, mile after mile, With nowhere to rest her tired wings Until arrived safely in Grande-Bretagne. All summer long, she danced in delight, Enjoying England’s country flowers. She found a mate, she laid her eggs, Choosing just the right clump of thistles. But after summer comes the fall: Her bright colours began to fade, Her wings were tattered, her flight grew weak, She was preparing to repose en paix. But let us not lament her old age; She’s lived a long, satisfying life. Her beauty brought delight to us all As she fluttered and danced and grew From mademoiselle to madame, From madame to vieille. Let’s celebrate the colourful life Of one amazing Painted Lady.
This was the first, and only, Painted Lady that I’ve seen this year. I watched her fluttering weakly but bravely for a few feet at a time. I realised how elderly she was, and this poem was inspired when I reflected how amazing it was that she’d emerged from hibernation in the spring, perhaps 800 miles away. How is it that such a tiny, lightweight, apparently fragile creature can fly across Europe and across the English Channel to get to the UK? And why do they do it? God’s creation is truly wonderful, awe-inspiring!