A Moth

A Moth

A moth, warming her wings

on the windscreen of my car,

chose to hang on to the sun

and live the rest of her journey

in the wind.

She turned her grim face

to the breeze, paper wings

slightly unfolded,

filament legs braced.

Survival is the first instinct.

We work to feed ourselves,

clothe our bodies,

build shelters.

Play along.

I wonder how long we can

hang on to this frictionless wall.

I glance at the moth.

She has squatted lower, stronger.

Her wing tips quivering,

her head moving slowly,

side to side, deciding.

She manoeuvres slightly left

to a slight angle, lowers her

forward wing to the glass,

rearward wing raised a little.

A new moth for the wind

to challenge.

Some days we meet life

head-on. On others we

decide which strengths

to lean on, which way to turn

for survival.

It’s been a testing day.

Problems seem to press in

when we’re at our weakest.

Like we can hear the

sledge-hammer

pounding closer.

The moth takes on a new form.

She has turned almost side-on,

three legs outstretched towards

the hammer-blows,

three legs behind, absorbing the beat.

Her wings look serene, caping

her body to the glass.

Holding on, somehow.

We have to hold on.

Only a little while until our reward.

Mine is a welcoming wife,

a hot meal, satisfaction

in friendships, in a book,

on a screen.

The road ahead opens out,

the way we must go is clear.

I’m willing us to keep our grip,

head down, enjoy the ride.

But inevitably we will slide,

forcefully cast

by the unyielding wind,

to the unyielding wind.

21/10/25