Moths are the poor cousin of butterflies but they have their own beauty and a mysterious quality linked to their nocturnal natures. The challenge this week was to write an epic tale or poem about moths full of drama. Here's two quite different responses - a narrative poem and a poetic piece of prose! Thanks for reading.
CATCH ME IF YOU CAN
Batting
wings briskly under a back porch light
Seemingly,
a million moths appear out of nowhere each night
While
some fly slow and others dart quicker
But
watch your wings little moths near the door mat
For
you're being eagerly eyeballed by a caramel coloured cat
He's
stealth and quick, quicker than the spray of a sneeze
And
he'll stalk and hunt you, with untold ease
He's
mastered the art of catching many things, including you guys
As
his senses heighten and he widens his eyes
Many
moths dance teasingly around his head
But
he's quick to swipe, leap, prance and swat them dead
With
his claws out, sharp at the ready
He
watches one intently, keeping his body stiff and steady
Then
with one leap he bounds in the air
Sending
the moths into a chaotic frenzy up there
He
hops and bounces around the porch like a wild bunny
To
witness all this commotion is actually rather funny
And
just like that he's caught one, a magnificent prize
As
it wriggles under his paw, he watches with deep black eyes
Then
all of a sudden, the movement stops
He
lifts his paw slowly and to his paw his nose drops
It's
not moving.....is it deceased?
As
he stands up from the floor and his inhaling is increased
Just
like that, the game is over, it's no fun anymore
As
he walks away, the moth lays still on the floor
Then
out of nowhere, the moth flickers and flutters away
Smart
little bugger, who gets to live another day!
By Jacinda Hurring
JUST NOT MY TYPE
The lights were everywhere. Dazzling, they glittered in the low-drifting mist, split into sintered glass fragments, dropped onto the lawn and glowed on blades of damp grass.
A wet macrocarpa leant slowly towards the dull full moon, which glared down, its light dispersed across the mist, stolen from its beaming face and scattered, to be lost on the haze. Flickering colours ran up and down the tree as carnival decorations switched on, and the soothing mist waited expectantly.
As the people walked in, quietly, hopeful, two moths awoke from their caterpillar-sleep and crawled from secret places burrowed in the macrocarpa, to sit watching, waking, stretching. Wings unfolded and lengthened and, as night drew darker their patterns and spots were revealed; to any who could see in the dark.
First flight was exhilarating, weaving around the tree, moving quickly from one light to another. They wove around each other, and away, and back.
“Ugh moths” roared a woman, as her swinging handbag sliced through the air, knocking one to the ground. Gathering wings in quickly it sat stunned on the planet as the Handbag moved on.
Reoriented, it lifted and fluttered quickly to a tree branch, blending its browns and greys. A rest, reinvigoration. More light now, the mist was blowing, slowly. The moth fluttered, again chasing the lights, checking for the right wavelengths. Above the moon shone through clearly, full-spectrum reflection.
The two fluttered around each other eyeing the greys and browns, purples and yellows, iridescent in the moonlight, then split away, still searching.
- KJ
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