Moths in the Agapanthus
Something shudders beneath the flower heads.
It is past dusk, almost dark
and I think it’s late for bees.
Then I see the splayed wings,
watch as they favour the underside
of these huge, blue blooms,
draw long sips of nectar, until
inebriated they sway away
like puffs of smoke.
Static, their velvet, powdery wings
display a deeper curlicue, and lost
within the agapanthus harem
they drink their fill, weave
between the long blue funnels
as though in Pompeii’s street of harlots.
These peacocks of the night come unannounced,
their un-regarded work may only seem
like filaments of shifting atmosphere.