Zebra Moths Poem by Mark Heathcote

A garden wet with dew glistens emerald green,
its gate squeaks before it slams shut.
Ghostly footsteps pad down in the mud,
The sun is shining like a golden nectarine.
And nettles like javelins stand tall ridged together
Humming and mumbling in rows quietly by
the compost heap, amassed against the red-brick wall.
Till all the stars convene and a hunter's moon
reveals the ghost, the ghost of hope
striding to a distant horizon, in a desert
we see dancing Zebra moths, angered by the sun,
its rays of amber always, setting over someone in dunes.