Moths

Moths

Powdery moth wings beat on blurred glass,
Flicker of electric light pulls stronger than the moon.
Natural scent of wet leaves and night sky ignored,
Craving instead the sweet decay of cut flowers,
Imitation petals locked in the fibres of fabric.
Treacherous cats curled on the couch,
Teeth and claws and fur and purrs.

Despite the dangers of cats and flames,
The shaded heat of light-bulbs
Calls them with honey laced whispers.
Yet with a flick of a switch, a cooling of sparks,
The white wings are left to flutter,
Tired and bruised in the frozen darkness.