Too hot for sleep and hospital

worry, I am up with the light, kitchen

door open and calling a cat home.

​

Under black sail

a curiosity at eye-level wends towards

an omen, if I looked for such things,

a behemothic progress, solemn display

of flutter and float on the night air,

with direction and purpose, a colossal

Death’s-head Hawk-moth proceeds, yes,

is processional, slow and un-fevered,

like a boat, ploughing a wake, out

from safe harbour, caught in the rain.

​

She is trailing black clouds

under night weather, wings her way

steady, inevitable as a compass

a grand old lady, in funereal garb

and readying,

towards the light