Where's the beauty in old leaves, moth?
In rough bark and fungus?
In the torn-off corner of a magazine,
Bright in a drab corridor,
In the busy little pictures
Stuck on grim envelopes,
The red cinema tickets
We leave on mantelpieces,
All the tiny, irregular things
Dropped, or blown, or carelessly put,
Eyecatching in their wrongness,
Splendidly out of context.
Like a tree-bark moth
On a railway carriage wall,
Drawing eyes with its camouflage.