After the waves of reckoning had ceased
And I had passed through the eternal entrance,
They dressed me in a taupe-coloured sack-cloth
And a tea-towel for a turban.
One good man retrieved a moth from my ear,
Said to be cursed from the days of Neferu-Seh;
He said he was a beetle-surgeon
But worked on Lepidoptera, for a fee.
A dryad was summoned to wash my feet,
I gave her my name as a down-payment;
An oread exsanguinated words from me
As if with lexicons I had been pregnant.

Back home, the corridors were dusty
And in need of painting,
The lawn was bare and wanted draining;
Utility bills drifted on to a doormat.
The first action after the sighs are spent
Is to untake dormant photographs;
Their mothers would weep if they had sight
Of where their children as adults might end,
A wintry beach in Lincolnshire, a terminus.
Not payment enough to prevent the mishaps,
There was no moth; only myths and traps.

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