I dislike moths
Such old, dusty
Sepia butterflies
That flap at my face
Crash my cupboards
Caught in a protracted pause
Betwixt the seasons
Munching on jumpers
Waving beetle-brows
Beaten from carpets and comfort
Like absent pupils
Silt-minds wandering
To sunny fields
And freedom from
All manner of sticky-
Beaked rules

One thought on “Autumnal

  1. YES, YES…it must be a certain synchronicity forcing poets to spit-up old fashions and cough out some gemstones today. The poets are ALIVE!

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