The small black ant (one of those who always
Seem to be in a hurry and are wonderfully aware
Of your finger inches away; not worth killing, but
Nevertheless are killed in their thousands
When housewives empty sugar into the burning sun
Or when stuck in sweet sticky liquids, drowning)
Was dragging backwards across
The black-and-white picture of George Washington
In my history book (over his nose to be exact)
Four centimetres of a dragonfly
Minus one wing, the other crumpled of its colour;
Whose body grey and dry was only last night,
When in a fit of peevishness, trying hard to concentrate
On a jumble of battles and dates, I had struck it
Spinning in a wild buzz against the table-lamp shade,
Purple and green and alive with a mad magic.
Four segments of the tail curled up to tickle a nostril,
But G. Washington remained as dignified as ever
(Though his eyes looked accusing at me) . I should not
Have done it, not have taken the corpse
And carrier hanging determinedly on, waving six legs,
Placed them in the index at the end of the book,
And stamped them.
Six months later the perfect impression,
Just above Trafalgar,232,260,
Of the little drama I had witnessed that morning
In May, presented itself like Something
Not Very Bad.
Indeed, I regretted the loss of the other wing.
Tan Pratonix
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ant-and-dragonfly/
