Lust at play
A bat arcs on its parabola
Towards a moth, flapping its
Peppered wings above a dying lamp.
The sickly glow picks out the rat’s sheen-black
Fur, shuttling from bin to gutter while
Its flesh-winged equivalent
Clicks in on its indolent prey sating
Its drunken light-lust, teetering around
The glow’s edge before canine teeth
Clamp head to abdomen, crush flesh
And swallow; fragments of dusted
Leaves spin round the lamp-post
And rest on two lovers’ shoulders.
Henry Bew, 2012.
This marks an exciting and sad day: this is the first of what, I hope, will be a number of photos and images taken on my new camera; I'm really excited as the possibilities it will open up! I still have clutch of poems and images to work up from my old, trusty companion but, for now, here is a new beginning. I sense a memorial ode coming on...