moth-stephen francis

Moth

There is a moth on my windowsill.

It fluttered around till

It died.

Should I have cried

At its futile life

Having survived all the strife

That an insect can endure

It collapsed, seduced by the allure

Of a simple bulb

Its only use now to be used as pulp

For future generations.

We look upon these creatures

With their alien features

And snigger at their irrelevance

While congratulating our intelligence

All the while unsuspecting

Or perhaps objecting

To the idea we may have more in common

With the blossom

And the robin

Than we care to imagine.

Such are our limitations

So I remember its plight

By the poem I write

Goodnight my unknown moth.