In the pheromone filled night,
feathered antennae dust the moon’s
nectar heavy pool of black perfume.
Moth mouse fur and tympanal ears,
drum the air for scent,
each instinctive insect thought
folds the air under pollen powdered wings,
and a toe, gently taps the petals invite.
This moth like an emperor in ermine,
floats majestic around his walled garden,
where, visible only to the ultra-violet eye,
sweet misted midnight veils
plume and drift and rise.
This is the inner insect psyche,
where the tips of probing tongues uncurl,
uproot and quiver drown, in sugar scented wells.
Moth by Mark Stopforth was highly commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (May 2018) judged by Derek Adams