Poetry

Still Mauve

A fine mauve moth wet-winged in the pool
So lightly lifted out on a pole
Plastered there in the hot sun to dry
Had little better to do than die.
Or so it seemed from the midday shade
With lunchtime ants all out in platoon
But moth’s was the day, wings won the prayer
On shroudlike gauze she rose into air.

Rod Usher

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