Black Hills Gold Butterfly

black hills gold butterfly

    black hills
  • A mountain range in eastern Wyoming and western South Dakota. The highest point is Harney Peak (7,242 feet; 2,207 m); Mount Rushmore is also part of this range

  • * Black Hills in South Dakota and Wyoming ** Black Hills Airport in Spearfish, South Dakota ** Black Hills Gold Rush in South Dakota from 1874-1877 ** Black Hills National Forest in South Dakota and Wyoming ** Black Hills Playhouse, a theater in South Dakota ** Black Hills State University in

  • mountains in southwestern South Dakota and northeastern Wyoming; sacred to the Sioux (whites settling in the Black Hills led to the Battle of Little Bighorn); site of Mount Rushmore

  • The Black Hills (Paha Sapa in Lakota, Mo??hta-vo?honaaeva in Cheyenne) are a small, isolated mountain range rising from the Great Plains of North America in western South Dakota and extending into Wyoming, USA.

  • A fluttering and nauseated sensation felt in the stomach when one is nervous

  • a swimming stroke in which the arms are thrown forward together out of the water while the feet kick up and down

  • flutter like a butterfly

  • An insect with two pairs of large wings that are covered with tiny scales, usually brightly colored, and typically held erect when at rest. Butterflies fly by day, have clubbed or dilated antennae, and usually feed on nectar

  • A showy or frivolous person

  • diurnal insect typically having a slender body with knobbed antennae and broad colorful wings

  • coins made of gold

  • amber: a deep yellow color; "an amber light illuminated the room"; "he admired the gold of her hair"

  • made from or covered with gold; "gold coins"; "the gold dome of the Capitol"; "the golden calf"; "gilded icons"

  • A yellow precious metal, the chemical element of atomic number 79, valued esp. for use in jewelry and decoration, and to guarantee the value of currencies

  • An alloy of this

  • A deep lustrous yellow or yellow-brown color



Oddly enough, I wrote the following song whilst flying to Australia, several years ago now. The picture shows a rowan tree with multiple trunks at Uffington Gorse.


Bare, each branch, as I walk by,
The sky like tarnished steel,
And underfoot, brown, frozen earth,
A dearth of herbs that heal.

Bent, each bough, with weight of snow;
Winds blow, the land lies bleak,
And inspiration's wrapped in shrouds;
Dark clouds hide all I seek,

Until I climb the highland hill
Where Rowan stands alone,
And though the winds are squalling still -
All white, the branches blown -
The stars of heaven have come down:
The Rowan wears them like a crown.
It seems the constellations glow
In facets of the flaking snow.

Damp with dew, each breaking bud;
The flood breaks banks below,
And bleary-eyed, the badgers wake,
The snake is lithe, but slow,

And though the ice begins to thaw,
Once more the cuckoo calls -
Inspiration's dormant still;
My will yet stops and stalls,

Until I climb the highland hill
Where Rowan stands alone,
And though the air still bears a chill
Her milky flowers have grown,
And all around the fecund tree
Flies the midge and hums the bee,
The ground still clammy, cold and bare -
And yet her perfume fills the air.

Fledglings fly, the ground grows dry,
And high, the skylark sings,
And butterflies on bell-flowers settle
With brittle brimstone wings.

But parched and thirsty is my heart,
My art by bindweed bound,
And sound nor sight can waken words;
Birds scratch the dusty ground,

Until I climb the highland hill
Where Rowan stands alone,
And soft and dappled shadows spill
On lichen-covered stone,
Her pinnate leaves, which filter sun,
Convince me that, 'ere time begun,
The first man from the Ash was grown,
The first woman from the Rowan.

Flowers fall and brown leaves curl,
And whirl, in eddies chill,
And cider apples, fed by rain;
Gold grain, the baskets fill.

But though the berries, black and bruised
Are used to brew rich wine,
And fieldfares fly, the fates refuse
The muse that once was mine,

Until I climb the highland hill
Where Rowan stands alone,
And red-lipped Bridget's sitting still
Upon her Rowan throne;
The fieldfares come to kiss her mouth
Before their flying for the south.
Her inspiration fills me now;
Red berries weigh each burdened bough.

Source material: No tree has inspired more folkloric associations than the Rowan. See Robert Graves, The White Goddess, pp. 167-8; J.M. Paterson, Tree Wisdom, pp. 225-242; Margaret Baker, Discovering the Folklore of Plants, London, 1980, pp. 133-136; Roy Vickery, Oxford Dictionary of Plant-Lore, Oxford, 1995, pp. 319-322.

Friday 13th June 2008

Friday 13th June 2008

"The fields from Islington to Marylebone
To Primrose Hill and Saint John's Wood
Were builded over with pillars of gold
And there Jerusalem's pillars stood."

- William Blake, Jerusalem

Last night I read Aidan Andrew Dun's 'Rimbaud, Psychogeographer', which decodes the poet's Le Bateau ivre ('The Drunken Boat', 1871) in the 'high prow' of Number 8 Royal College Street, the house in Camden that he shared with Paul Verlaine.

But Rimbaud would have known the canal well too, the section between Camden and Paddington opening in 1816, extending to Limehouse by 1820. And the boats that plied it, and the Golden pillars of its bridges.

"If there is one water in Europe I want, it is the
Black cold pool where into the scented twilight
A child squatting full of sadness, launches
A boat as fragile as a butterfly in May."

black hills gold butterfly

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