Whisper of the Moths

Rust beneath grey, the hour of black and white,
Within a moths fluttering drone there lies
Two blue balloons and an unstrung box kite
Keeping afloat a nightmare, used as spies
On an inert town. The moths exchange quick
Messages in a sighing language of
The dead and explode, a conjurer's trick
Settling with the white feathers of a dove.
Setting under the last sun, moths baptise
Murder on a rock with a strange pallor.
A stone of crows with a magpie disguise
Hoarding milk bottle tops, silver colour,
Pecking holes in a map drawn by the last
Surveyor in the dead hand of the past.

Grant Tarbard is the editor of The Screech Owl and co-founder of Resurgant Press. His first pamphlet Yellow Wolf is out now from WK Press.

Find more by Grant Tarbard in the Author Index.

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