Moths

I have seen their graveyards
By the naked bulbs
Where their husks are paper thin
Their scales are dust
And their broken faces lie
surmounted by a
Honeycomb of empty eye.

Moths mistake
the lamplight for the moon
And steered by stirrings older
Than the stars,
Orbit till their spiralled flight
Singe incandescent
On the light.

In my long, uncertain, navigations to the heart of God
Keep me following the ancient truths
beyond the bright, alluring vanities of men;

Remind us of simplicities:
Of confession and
forgiveness,
Of the mysteries of calling,
Of the doubts that keep us on our knees
equipping us with meekness for
inheriting the earth.

Protect us from the counterfeits that kill,
Whose brightness is a trick of distance, not illumination.
Protect us from
Experiences without fruit of change;
Emotion without integrity of will;
Words whose claims outweigh realities.
Visions based on wishes more than needs.

Consider our moth soft frailties;
The smallness of our understandings
The weakness of our wings
The labour of our flight.
Steer us gently, wisely, slowly;
Steer us starwise, moonwise, sunwise,
Steer us Godwise in the dark.

(c) A Mc N