My Skin Is Full Of Butterflies

My skin is full of butterflies, of fluttering wings -
they flit out over the meadow and delight in their honey
and flit home and die in small sad spasms,
and not one grain of pollen is disturbed by light feet.
For them the sun is hot, immeasurable, older than time
  itself ...

But under skin and blood and inside marrow
captured sea-eagles move heavily heavily,
spread-winged, never releasing their prey.

How  confused would they be, once, in the sea's  spring
  storm?
How would they cry, when the sun fired white-hot its
  yellow eyes?
Closed is the cave! Closed is the cave!
And between the claws writhe white like young roots
my innermost fibres.