Regular readers will know I have been keeping an eye on the moths visiting my garden. They come in all shapes and sizes and, frankly, are often jewels of nature with subtle colour shifts.
Often as not the difference between a full range of moths appearing and a limited selection is down to the cold/wind. So last night, when the temperature in South London hovered in the mid 20s and little wind (not something often said in my house), I rather hoped for a decent uptick in those passing through the turnstiles.
And in amongst the pictures here’s a poem I wrote aeons ago about poetry. Its relevance to moths? None at all.
Ars Poetica (2)
A poem is an erotic pass the parcel with words,
Seductively shedding its millefeuille of meanings to tease you with its deceits.
You climb up through its stanzas, in search of the rhythms on the next horizon
Which may leave you, if bereft of inspiration, fractured on its beguiling carapace.
Sometimes, the poem sneaks an idea past your guarded eye with some keyhole trickery;
At others, it blasts its revelations from your heart with a dum-dum of apt metaphors.
At best, a poem can take you by the hand and lead you gently, and with small, ecstatic steps,
To the edge of a chasm of thought, that leaves you breathless at its ineffable depths.
You may hate a poem for showing you that long covered two-way mirror,
Which shines a black light on the inner reaches of your craven self.
Or you may love it for providing you with a periscope to a world,
Which contains a truth about nothing, other than your previously unknowable self.