A Bat

For me they were always
Small packages of delight
Coming out of the blue June evening,
Flickering shadows,
Silent as moths
But swifter and more wayward:
Repetitive syllables
In the long spell of summer.

Today, a workman,
Called to arrest the crumbling
Of our local ruin, stood by the tower,
A small black creature
Clinging to his T–shirt.

Only a little larger than a moth,
Its dark fur
Puffed in the wind like smoke.
Wings hinge like silk
Of a furled doll's umbrella.
Its pen–nib mouth
Opened and closed without a sound
— More piteous for that.

Gently I touched it:
There seemed no substance
— Nothing but fur
And the fine grey fabric
Of its folded wings.