moon moths

The moths have a myth.

That the great light shut its door.

That light grew, ever more, narrow and thin

until the last slither was silenced with a click

and they were left outside

in the dark.

No highway now for them

But a frittering, mithering waste,

Either hidden in the night,

or dying, maddeningly, singeing their wings

in their insouciant  haste.

Until, under a full moon

when silence is a prayer

and everything is thrown into shadow and silver light

they gather above the tree tops, inconsequential, a myth;

unbeknown to the owls and ravenous bats.

They gather above the mountain tops,

 a vast cloud of pilgrims.

And fly through the open door of the night

Up, up through the insubstantial air

until the moon starts to gather them up,

and their wings start to beat, beat, beat,

drive and true,

And the sparkling solar winds pick out iridescent treasure

in their earth bound hues.

Now, if on a cold, clear night

you see the moon thronged by a gentle light

of fluttering, dancing moths come home;

no longer in the dark, no longer lost, no longer alone.

Remember, this wasn’t done by the great and the good,

but the ordinary, the foolish, the misunderstood.