As other lights go out,

This one is lit; this paradox in a box

That resists cold April nights,

And basks in balmy June two a.m temperatures

A beacon across a concrete valley

This distant third cousin of the moon, twice removed

Doesn’t recognise the strange orange lamps, leering nearby.

As hours pass, poetry drips, then trickles, then flows like waterfalls

Into this humble wooden box,

To be pieced back together after sunrise.

Come morning, and we crouch on bended knee,

Skin cooled by dew on grass, as if the Earth had spent the night in guilty sweats.

We kneel in worship, unsure what presents this polyethylene-mercury Christmas tree shelters.

It promises excitement, 

But we nervously thumb the pages of our guide,

Fidgeting, like children on Christmas Eve,

Unfaithful.

Common Footmen stand ready, sentinels on the outside of the box,

 Gingerly, we spread apart the sheets, switch off the light,

Peering, delving, in to see and feel the glory.

Our eyes dart among the dot moths, and the flame glows ever brighter.

As they escape our grasp, large underwings flash us from behind with yellow arses.

Among scattered cardboard, former chicken eggs have hatched into tiny bundles of mottled beauty.

We carefully unwrap each one, savouring on our tongues the gift that’s found within:

December Moth, Silver Y, Hebrew Character, Ruby Tiger.

The moths’ names tumble out, spreading into a cosmos of succulent poetry.

Once acquainted with each guest,

We tenderly entrust them to the gentle green leaves of nearby trees,

And through secret, magic wormholes eaten into the fabric of reality, 

They join the faeries and the elves, 

Hidden,

To slumber sunlight away, as people flit about.

All morning, while we steep ourselves in the beauty

Of these strangers become neighbours,

We remember that this is not a trap, but a trap door,

Into a world we used to know so well.