Isobel Lusted
'Soul with White Wings'
Evening, a sulphurous sky,
an unnatural quiet,
Puffsan, the cat, crouched
in the dark
corner under the table.
No birds flying.
We were being warned.
Late evening it arrived.
Small havoc in the old district to the north,
a different
quiet, uneasy, apprehensive,
an after-shock or two,
a scatter of shingles and further
off
a ringing, not of bells but of metal.
It was over: a middling quake – 5.2.
Dawn and I find a pale moth
on the screen door. It is the soul
of Mrs Mori two floors
below.
I do not know that yet
and ask the moth to go, leave, fly home
before the rising
sun should confuse
or injure it. Motes rise, the fragile
alabaster wings quiver on
the mesh.
At eight o’clock Mrs Mori, courteous
and calm comes to reclaim her soul,
eight being
a polite and acceptable time.