Allure

By Richard Mather

Allured by the oil lamp suspended

from a beam, a yellow shell moth

flits and flashes. Light and wing

make contact.

Potato eaters, tanned with dirt,

sit five to a table, drinking tea.

A man enters, lifts his hat, coughs,

studies the scene.

Something is said but not recorded;

a fork is lifted but not depicted.

Concealed by the shadows the hands

of the clock move slowly, slowly

And still the moth flits, irresistibly

drawn to the hot yellow moon.