Every evening the grass sighs,
its blades of greenness fade
as I call to you; if only
you would cross this savannah
to reach me,
flight directed towards my chemical lust
on your unearthly wings.
Dusk is sung to us
from darkening branches and
this approach of blindness asks
if you would carry light
gripped in your antlers
and summon the thunder to wrestle
other creatures under
the rot and sap of oak.
Daylight tranquillises, hums its own notes,
but night sounds an orchestra;
the chimes and groans of unseen movements
that question whether you would play your lyre
to lull me to forgetfulness of your taunts
of poplars and falls from grace.
This is our pinch and bite,
we are only this careless
until experience teaches us to be careful,
together, we were born to decay,
but we need not die in suburbia.
Image from pixabay.
I like stag beetles and some of the names they have been given like oak ox, billywitches, horse pinchers. And also the Greek myth of an arrogant lyre player being turned into one for spreading rumours about some nymphs.