Zebra Moths

A garden wet with dew glistens emerald green, its gate squeaks before it slams shut. Ghostly footsteps pad down in the mud, The sun is shining like a golden nectarine. And nettles like javelins stand tall ridged together Humming and mumbling in rows quietly by the compost heap, amassed against the red-brick wall. Till all the stars convene and a hunter's moon reveals the ghost, the ghost of hope striding to a distant horizon, in a desert we see dancing Zebra moths, angered by the sun, its rays of amber always, setting over someone in dunes.