art: ré ní fhloinn
I found a little white moth
sitting on my window sill.
It was slow as a sloth
and sat seriously still.
He was looking outside the window
probably contemplating life,
thinking of the good ol’ meadow
and his long lost wife.
Concluding, he longed for solitude,
I left him hanging there.
When I came back to the latitude,
he was to be seen nowhere.
He might’ve flown back home,
that’s my hunch.
But he could’ve also landed on a gnome
and become a bird’s brunch.
art: ré ní fhloinn