Here’s this Death’s-head Hawkmoth travelling solo,
high up, slowly. Banking on solar-guided
day flights, tracking lunar beams through the dark in
honeycombed flight dreams.

Up from Egypt, confident to her wingtips,
desert sunsets lighting her port side. Nights flown
on the same course. Gauging the safest glide paths,
dreaming the touchdown.

Fog-bound days logged over the slate-grey sea chop,
sturdy thorax beating down square-rigged breast strokes
till Swiss cantons stand in for whitecaps. Cruises,
pressing up wing loads.

Light rain welcomes flight’s closing leg to refuge:
vespers’ vistas. Death’s-head knows honey beckons:
bulging golden beehives awaiting her drop-in.
Drills down to get some.

Two months’ perfect homing is paid in sugar.
Sweet with fuel needed for last feat: laying
eggs in garden plants’ shade. Each egg grows its own
honeycombed flight dreams.

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