Tonight the small white moths
Are dropping out of the moon
And running rings on the stone,
Mistaking it for a lake.
These are the Water Veneers
Who have left one home for another
In hope to discover a mate.
Round and round they go
On a surface that is firm,
That will not give them their wish
And round and round you go
Trying to send them away,
To tell them this is just stone,
The shining path not a pond.
None of them hears what you say,
Intent as they are on desire,
Caressing the softness of dew
With their spirits of fire.
Alasdair Aston