The First Fly

The First Fly

The first fly of the year.
It batted its wings,
flew from a corner,
out from a crack in the paintwork,
a slit in the window sill.
I sat very still, and watched it flit
about the air of my kitchen,
hit its head on a window pane.
Insects are forgotten in winter,
spring brings them back again.
It is late February fly,
I wanted to tell it.
You have woken too early,
fooled by bright sunshine.
The sun stays low in the sky,
gives no heat to my feet or my face,
and the frost has frozen my bin lid,
made hard my lawn,
traced white webs on the pavement,
but it is natural so that is fine.
Should have hibernated longer,
whatever flies do.
Insects have not been my study.
Where they are when they are not here,
I have not a clue.

Cold crumbs for the sparrows
lie on the roof of my shed.
In the bare back garden bush they chatter,
I wonder on what they have fed.
Sea gulls swoop in from the sea shore,
crows caw in the trees.
Spring seeds will sprout
when winter agrees.

In spring and summer we await the return
of the finch, swift and swallow,
not the wasp and the centipede,
the snail and the slug.
Apart from the bee and the butterfly,
insects are largely disliked,
dismissed as the bug,
especially by the farmer and gardener,
for on what they plant a flea may feed,
a white maggot may devour a seed.
It is nature, however, so what can you do?
Humans have been partly my study.
Where we are when we are not here,
I have not a clue.

 

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