There's a moth on a thistle! In broad daylight, between the showers and the rain and the sun. It's a bit muddy like, after all the rain, in the field at the gable end of Seanie McHaughey's house, over the five bar gate, tricky now in wellos after 10 pints, the slip and the slide of it all, among the crowds, the throngs, the hordes, descending there like it's Glastonbury. The moth, still there, but not on the thistle, on a Dandelion, a dent de Lion, a Piss the bed, a clock head, blow to tell the time. We need a shrine, a shroud, a commemoration, an adoration, a plenerary divulgence among all the effluence and the cows. I Know, we know, the hanging gardens of Babylon, The Taj Mahal, the Great Wall of China, We know men on the moon and heading to mars, and the Holocaust, and children blown to bits on Palestinian beaches, we know the clock counting down in times square, the mushroom cloud over Hiroshima, the Sistine Chapel, the sunflowers by the one eared madman, we know,we've heard Gershwin, Beethoven,The Sex Pistols, but this is a moth upon a Dandelion, upon a thistle, like, well like in a Heaney poem, we need to bolt the doors lock the gates, erect a grandstand, build an airport, we have it, we have it, we have it, the moth, the dandelion, the thistle.