Lantern

A lantern hangs 
from a branch
melting its light
into the immense dark.
It could be a scene
from shogunate Japan,
in a temple garden
late at night with cool air
drifting down 
from the mountains.
The monks asleep.
The sound of a frog
breaking the holy silence
with a sudden plop,
as if all was held there frozen
in a haiku, a chilled perfection
caught to resonate a sadness
within the soul in having
to let such a moment go.
A soft breeze moving a leaf
slowly across a pond
to intercept the reflection
of a rising moon.

But this lantern is here
in a neighbour's yard,
a focussed still in the centre
of a moonless night, suddenly
flashing bright blue
and smoking
from the seared wings
of an electrocuted moth,
crackling thus
in the startled filaments
of the mind.

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