Here’s a moist black stone
out of place
and company,
a stranded
upturned little pebble

From last night’s sudden rainfall;
it’s shell dew-like,
onyx like your Grandmother’s oval ring
just sitting,
in December’s frost laden garden.

Within its protective jacket
there is 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-
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.

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.
with your solar lamps
like blinding fog lights
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
The beetle-
small- unthreatening,
shuffles, scuttles out of sight.


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