The moths.(Poem)

 
THE MOTHS 
 
   They cling like fridge-door magnets to the bricks' 
   Attempt at stone, 
   Their shades of fertilizer, wholemeal flour, 
   Ground bone. 
 
   In this brown season of the year they come 
   To settle, flattened 
   Against the walls on which their fractal wings 
   Look patterned, 
 
   And, darker by degrees, wait out the days 
   That do not hide them. 
   A weightless plague of air with only air 
   To guide them, 
 
   They find their way inside uncomfortably 
   And make the same 
   Mistake against a door jamb or a window 
   Frame. 
 
   There, in the curtained onset of the dark, 
   The close hours give 
   An urgency to them that they ...