A Moth

A moth lay down on my hat to die.

On the bright blue tartan check

His brown wings were crumpled and dry 

Like a dusty mountain range, a hollow shell.

An exoskeleton, so big and heavy he had not 

The strength to fly anymore. But he left his 

Life blood, a yellowish oil, on my kitchen table.

Leaked his core and crumbled quietly away.

Or maybe he’d wee’d all over my table, 

Climbed onto my hat and died.

It was a lot of wee though.  

Thick and oily with a yellow residue

I don’t know if I should wipe it off.

If it’s his soul I should keep it.  

Draw it up gingerly in a pipette 

And keep it in a small labelled vial.

Keep it until I am ninety and then allow a

Tiny drop on my tongue and see if 

I get any younger or dustier or if

I wake up the next day as a giant powdery moth.

I’d haul myself out the ground-floor window of the nursing home

Look back with black eyes at the slumped body of the nurse,

Who brought in my tea and toast then screamed and fainted,

Whilst I waggled my antennae in the cold morning sun

I’d take off - until I’m shot down by the National Guard at 10.38 am

Who’ve read my oversized air presence as A Terrorist Threat,

Whilst I’ve flown across England from coast to coast,

Flitting and galumphing over sunny Wolverhampton.

Headlines will read “Giant Moth Eats Pensioner – 

In Nursing Home Attack!” because in the autopsy,

When they cut me up they’ll find bits of me in me.  

But they’ll put me in the Natural History Museum 

And I might even be the main attraction for a short while - 

A phenomenon that children come and see.  

And a blockbuster Hollywood film with 

follow-ups two and three involving different large insects.  

The Return of the Lepidopterans.