Robert Verdon, #34, angelic moth

hesitant

as shuffling currents

in a river

glistening on the cabbage

are the wings of

an angel

far down the paddock

by the defunct diesel pump

I sit

by silvered, stamped iron,

painted long before I

was born,

watching cabbages

and migrant women hoeing

it might be the twelfth century

the white moth’s eye

fixes me

in a photograph

not

of my own

devising.