The beetle of this poem is a creature of reality. I encountered it four years ago at Mahon Falls and knew then, it would become inspiration for a nature poem. I had never seen a creature like it; satiny black, resoundingly present. I could almost hear it hum.
Standing at the crossroads between summer and autumn, it felt like a sign. As I was expecting my first daughter at the time, perhaps the beetle was a symbol of massive change to come and a reminder of the wonders nature can produce.
Your colours are an antique desk.
Main body – black hide,
honed for anguished pen-strokes,
Legs – frame of the desk,
slim as tapered quills,
You are an instrument to my writing.
I note you on my pocket page,
give you words, a voice that speaks
from behind your gravel irises.
I present you, so others can see your size,
the ebony-tawny gleam of
your mismatched elements.
The animation is all your own,
sweeping movements, grace of a bird,
land, forage, nest.
K. S. Moore
Photo by George Moore.