hovering as if motorised, wings flexing
and bending, its views of water
ponded below compounded
through multiple lenses
the water soaked in fallen leaves
from ancient cork oak
stretching far above
stained a tannic uncertain brown
– its garden space a well defended territory
marked by who knows what chemical
and behavioural boundaries
and how they became etched in coded language.
Synapses firing to define a turf.
Green tree frog pressed low
to illyarrie trunk nearby –
it too focused from time to time
on that tannic inviting water
in a bowl so blue it might
have fallen as a piece
from the sky above, shining cerulean and warm
as potential prey does its tiny best
to escape the notice of both predators
who, in the simplest terms,
simply need to eat them.
A hoverfly darts into view,
hovers briefly, scanning who knows what,
bands of black and gold mimicking
bees and wasps, but with a pretended sting.
Lunch is a small serve of pollen
washed down with a trickle of sticky, succulent nectar.
Bliss and fulfilment on the wing.
It then darts swiftly out of view.
I stare and wonder about
the hows and whys of tiny life
living with ecstatic activity
in a lush suburban backyard –
wild in nature, covered with dusted pollen,
ravenous genes in search of sticky stigmas.
Survivors in a green-layered space,
living with the inevitability of violation.