The Moths Return

The moths are returning to our balcony. Here is a beautiful Brimstone found on the wall on Monday morning - a treasure, a jewel.  A marvelous creation.

I  am still down one hearing aid, and the car is in the garage, hopefully being properly fixed this time.

If the Hearing Aid Garage is able to fix the aid, I shall be able to drive it again too,  or rather, it will be able to drive my ears, but sadly no garage can fix me.  Only my Creator can, and I hope when the time comes He will.

Here are a couple of poems about moths that I had forgotten about, so thank you balcony Brimstone and  Captain Moth-Butterfly for reminding me of them.  The poems are inspired by moths and about moths, but also, of course, about so much more, as these are poets, not versifiers.

 The Moth  by Walter de la Mare

    Isled in the midnight air,
    Musked with the dark's faint bloom,
    Out into glooming and secret haunts
    The flame cries, 'Come!'

    Lovely in dye and fan,
    A-tremble in shimmering grace,
    A moth from her winter swoon
    Uplifts her face:

    Stares from her glamorous eyes;
    Wafts her on plumes like mist;
    In ecstasy swirls and sways
    To her strange tryst.

https://allpoetry.com/The-Moth

The Moth Signal (On Egdon Heath) by Thomas Hardy

'What are you still, still thinking,
He asked in vague surmise,
'That you stare at the wick unblinking
With those great lost luminous eyes?'

'O, I see a poor moth burning
In the candle-flame,' said she,
'Its wings and legs are turning
To a cinder rapidly.'

'Moths fly in from the heather,'
He said, 'now the days decline.'
'I know,' said she. 'The weather,
I hope, will at last be fine.

'I think,' she added lightly,
'I'll look out at the door.
The ring the moon wears nightly,
May be visible now no more.

She rose, and, little heeding,
Her husband then went on
With his attentive reading
In the annals of ages gone.

Outside the house a figure
Came from the tumulus near,
And speedily waxed bigger,
And clasped and called her Dear.

'I saw the pale-winged token
You sent through the crack,' sighed she.
'That moth is burnt and broken
With which you lured out me.

'And were I as the moth is
It might be better far
For one whose marriage troth is
Shattered as potsherds are!'

Then grinned the Ancient Briton
From the tumulus treed with pine:
'So, hearts are thwartly smitten
In these days as in mine!'

https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-moth-signal-on-egdon-heath/

The lovely Brimstone was not on our balcony this morning, which is a sunny one. I hope it was not eaten by a passing bird, but is out there having a wonderful and fulfilling life.