On taxidermy and related matters

Passing an antique shop while on holiday, I stopped to take a look at some coloured glass in the window. Beneath that vase, and just inside the shop a taxidermist's case rested on an upholstered chair. It was packed tight with butterflies and moths, pinned with some regularity but without a clear rule. The freshness of colours and dark hardwood of the frame suggested the case had seen little daylight.

In the days since that trip, as I select poems to submit for a pamphlet competition, this case has come to mind. I find myself wondering whether this was all she had, this collector? And assuming there were more, how had she decided what was worthy to include, and what of the other insects she had sacrificed? How many moths were there among the butterflies? And why, other than its outstanding beauty include that one silken blue among so many earthy browns and warm oranges?

I'm never likely to get a chance to these questions answered by this collector, identified as Victorian in the shop. But as my submission deadline draws closer I find myself discarding some stronger work, and rethinking the relevance of older work. And in doing so I realise my questions have more to do with taste and coherence, than about taxidermy.