Beetle

Here’s a moist black stone

out of place

and company,

a stranded

upturned little pebble

unappreciated.

From last night’s sudden rainfall;

it’s shell dew-like,

onyx like your Grandmother’s oval ring

just sitting,

blinking

in December’s frost laden garden.

 

Within its protective jacket

there is movement.

Movement

which twitches, stretches,

stirs alongside

the unconscious of the house-

extending fine legs

across your patio step

it wriggles free from its hiding place.

The beetle

with its winged back-

delicate

like the wide spilling eyes

of confused children- glossy

as newly polished shoes

should be.

You could squish it with one small tap of your heeled boot.

 

 

There-

to crawl into the cavities of our minds,

to creep into your thoughts

as you sleep at night

-creating such revulsion.

But now you watch the creature from

the protection of your double glazing;

it’s movements quick, not frightening

but frightened.

Fusing with cold cement terracotta,

it stalks side lines,

disguised amongst your mother’s shrubbery;

beautiful rhododendrons- shivering in the cold.

And

with your solar lamps

like blinding fog lights

stunning,

revealing

its coded wings;

an emerald sheen

ensnares you.

 

Dispersing your disgust

and the unwelcome shudder

that normally accompanies it

you catch something

of interest here

and the creature seems all that

less

despicable.

Amiable?

The beetle-

small- unthreatening,

shuffles, scuttles out of sight.

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