by Peter McBride

The title of this poem is Spanish for moth – nocturnal butterfly. Peter McBride wrote the poem shortly before he died in May, after a long
illness.

His friend Dick Lynas said: ‘Peter spoke of his impending journey in his final days. He did not fear it. On the contrary, he looked forward to it with the curiosity that was so much a mark of the man’. The butterfly whose beating wings could make all the difference for him was, of course, his faith. And it was the positivity of his faith which convinced him that his prayers would be answered, even as he prayed them.

I drift in the night
You flit in my head.
Lit like a moth. Light
Wings might move liners
I’ve heard it said.

Wing-beats start storms
From Mayo to Maine
Urgency conjures
Such hurricanes
Beat me a storm
of fire and ice.

Harrow my soul
And steer me to Christ!
You be my helmsman
my compass, my crew.
You be the mast
I lash myself to.