the moths gather
fluttering in the shards of my beacon
toes curl
into night cold moss
unfurling as snails
tortoiseshell in the full moon
slide over me
i lay down drinking in the stars
playing shadow puppets in the lamplight
distant murmurings of bats and hares
my ears alive to the minuscule
slowly
i hear your approach
chalk white skin reflected
shivering now with expectation.
KD 22/7/13
Do go and see all the others writings here at The Mag
The image is from a painting by Andrew Wyeth.
