Wing-splayed, I am that dirt white moth
at rest on a redbrick wall.
My time is short
but unrestrained:
all your well-mannered shrubbery
has been consumed.
I must fly on or die
before I reach the coast.
There, in newly engineered revetments,
concrete is stacking up:
the work of years, shielded by hoardings.
Sea defence. Its PR low-down tells me
we won’t be overwhelmed
at least in my lifespan.
many thanks to Casey Jarrin for the moth
as if it were a safe.
From our hiding place in a tiny slice of dark matter,
we must now step through.
You are one of thousands
smashing particles, scouring the standard model
for some
due cause
of its collision debris.
But the clash of geometry and pure chance discloses
no obvious motive yet.
And I am camouflage,
have passed every experimental test you’ve set
so far.
Beyond the AI mirror
where ripples of quantum light annihilate,
my deeper structures pulse.
It is too early to party –
that’s the second thing you should know.
We could still detonate the landmines
there beneath our skin.
viii. 2025
Back from the refill shop, weighed down
with staples, I pour loose flour into Kilner jars
watchful not to spill the meanest scruple.
But I’ve misjudged capacity,
bought more than there is storage for.
The funnel overruns: I ask myself
(were it allowed) how many people could
our surplus feed. And how long for?
Here is our laundry, soaked and rinsed and wrung
by hand, or pulled from drum to basket in wet lumps:
the mundane that makes us human,
going out and coming in like a tide.
We do not dress in salt-damp clothes.
My town has fuel enough – its water pumped
and clean. There’s soap to buy.
No dust of demolition in the wind.
Replanting our backyard in terracotta
is a long-term proposition, a luxury.
To recover what has been starved,
cut down, polluted and uprooted
needs more than water and new soil.
I gaze at my earth-dirty hands,
believe in century-old harvests, and
grieve at the absence of olive branches.
vii. 2025
Culture Matters
