There remains a duality of feeling towards the Ringlet. Its interminable reluctance to open a wing on alighting is simply bothersome to the voyeur; permanently clothed and obstinate in undress (who wants to see half a Mona Lisa?) Then there is the unspeakable lack of colour which sighs towards the eye with apparent regret (summer does not
do mocha). And the flight! Complicated and tiresome, peripatetic and distastefully territorial.
Oh, but a most delectable contrast is offered to those who care to look, for the Ringlet is a species of subtle sublimity.
A flash of lucidity that halos bring
when on the wing.
A pattern that nature implies
an enemies eye, or several. So beware!
Taking breath, where breath has been.
Golden arcs, momentarily seen.
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