30. Mar, 2020

Moth

It came like a night moth,
Fluttering at our windows
With dry, pale wings.
Now silent Sundays
Slip us all into the past,
When no-one came to call
And we studied our inner selves
To count our blessings,
Or take ourselves to task.
We still light our candles,
Now votaries of health,
A herbal incense of hope
Held in essential oils,
Steeping our souls in lemon balm,
With bath bombs for pomanders.

Ruth Enright