Bats Poem by Charl JF Cilliers

Slow-motion images unreel from twilight
childhood: ultrasonic squeaks on hinges
flapping through the fur of darkness
wide wings throbbing thin
as tissue paper, vein-pulsing
silhouettes against the moon.

At dusk, from black holes in hillsides,
they flap out in a feeding frenzy:
dodging in and out between the stars
vacuuming swarms of insects down hairy throats,
the swarms trawl-netted with sonic beams.
The air sprawls with a swelling fungus of sound
that sucks dry all the moonlight from the sky.

Even in our dreams they hover round
our subliminal caves:
rats hanging by their claws
as they stiffen into sleep.