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.
viii.
2025
many thanks to Casey Jarrin for the moth
No comments:
Post a Comment