ANDREW MAYNE POETRY
My brand-new desk-lamp draws them up three flights;
they’re foiled against ebony window panes.
Now four show off their bellies’ egg whites –
these night maggots pulled in by light’s taut chains.
Triangular brown-paper wings make capes
behind the eyes that, in full beam, glow red.
They crawl the glass, autumnal leaf-like shapes,
then plunge and flutter; till they re-embed
belaying-pins – tight on their pitch again.
What pleasures them must quite as much torment.
Beyond, head-lit and twinkle-tailed, a plane
slow curves its auto-piloted descent:
to passengers the town’s decked-out extent
invites their wonder at the starred mundane.
The Interpreter’s House (49)