venture near that glowing dot –

what ball of fire won’t burn its prey,

though it bade you

‘come, what may’?

chance upon a hollowed tree and probe the nest of honey bee,

each tag and sting from kith and kin, will purge with pain your deadly sin;

and perish not angelic moth spook horse called Froth,

who’ll kick and bolt at flippant-fling

a day to live with gaudy wing‘.

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Copyright © 2021 Laurence Arnold Kerr

‘State of the Art’ Short Poem Collection:

‘Terms of Affection’ Series