Just by touching it,

Just by touching it,

In a desire

To deliver it unto safety,

I doomed the moth.

Its presence

On the kitchen floor

In front of the fridge

Within a footstep

Of the dry goods store

Was as dangerous

As standing in the middle

Of the Chiswick flyover

In the rush hour

An accidental visitor

Choosing a motorway

For a siesta.

He was delightful to look at

With powdered wings folded

Neatly across his back,

All present and correct.

He lay,

A wonder

Of the natural world

Just not on my kitchen floor.

He was beautiful,

But not a thinker.

I padded around

Taking safety-first measures

Carefully avoidant,

Chivvying him along

Pestering him to move

With a nudge here

An attempted pick-up, there.

He flopped off

The kitchen roll

Even with a double fold

On the triple ply.

Eventually,

I brushed him into my palm,

Cupped both hands together

(As gentle as I was

This still seemed to upset him a little.)

And carried him out to the balcony

Where he fluttered

Down onto the floor

Blundering under the sofa.

I never saw him again

The fact that he didn’t phone

Or send a card

Didn’t raise a flag

But my fingers

Dusted with tiny scales

Rubbed from his wings

Kinda told me

He wouldn’t survive.

There are too many

Quick-witted birds

Around to miss

An easy mouthful

However unpleasant

The thought of that might be.