Black Butterflies

When you write again in your diary
Remember
To see the golden leaf in the summer sun
Or perhaps the blue rock-orchid
On one of our absent wanderings
On Table Mountain
I who have mingled my blood with the blood of
The sun at evening in Lisbon
Have carried you with me like a mirror
And I have written you
On the open page
Of my desolation
Your nameless word
When you write again in your diary
Remember
To see in my eyes
The sun that I now cover for always
With black butterflies.