Flashes of chaff in the sweet summer night,
Mayflies swarm up this quaint islet site
Of a hushed-up medieval auto-da-fé.
Feathers at first, they seem, then husks or hay
In cobble grooves, these nymphs molt and squirm,
Transform and spawn, rising on gauzy wings
To multiply, then drop in heaps as refuse in my eyes.
None too quick we spot what dies or why.
Unicorns emblazon noble arms, never mayflies,
Device this night devised for heretic flesh ablaze.