Green is her body
and invisible her wings,
and we only see her when she moves,
as move she must,
circling round the tiny pond
in the corner of the garden,
where all the leaves
are as green as her body
and the air invisible as her wings.

But she keeps moving
and she keeps hovering
round the edges of the water,
especially where there is moss,
she hangs close to the pool's edge,
curving her tail under
while she lays her eggs,
pausing here and there
as she keeps hovering, keeps moving.

And she glides this way and that,
as now and then her wings clatter
against the leaves, while she searches
for every strand of the moss, propels herself,
like a perfect emerald helicopter,
up and down and round about
the flat of the water,
her wings clattering against the leaves.

Clearly she's so busy,
so delighted with her task,
not even bothered by our presence,
totally absorbed
in her final stage of existence,
for once she has disposed
of all her eggs unseen,
soon she'll fade away, with nothing else remaining
of her joy in the task that delights.

5/9/06 Incident observed in Bristol. In memory of Jeremy Brent

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