A dead wasp’s carcass,

half chewed by wind,

half spat out with ferocious intent

by the earthbound ants

that plough tunnels underneath the street

which one day will cause the turn of the century

houses to cave in and be swallowed whole

by the teeming mass,

lays rotting in a puddle,

its wings now no more than show pieces

to a time when it lorded over all.

 

Do not mourn the wasp,

it is nothing more than the Luftwaffe

in insect form and the ants

just the engine

that must devour the dead and wreck less;

for all has its day in the sun

and all must belong in the end

in the small puddles of February’s cold call

 

I’m now waking up to the fact

that all that surrounds me,

all that floats on past,

is nothing but sea.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016