A Dead Dragonfly
My heart was moved to see you lying there,
your wings a silken tapestry
in contrast to the roughness of the concrete path.
At first I thought that you were only resting
from the blissful rigours of a warm late-summer day,
but as I looked, and you remained as still as death,
I saw that, like the first leaf of the autumn fall,
you’d drifted gently down to earth
before the fierce battering of winter
had caught you in its morbid grip.
It seemed as if, perhaps,
you’d chosen your own time and place to die,
not hidden in the gloomy shadows,
but where the sympathetic sun
could still sparkle on your wings
and catch the living fire,
as when your agile body had first danced above the water
or flitted with the joyfulness of life
across the skyscape of a careless summer day.
So, death had not robbed you of your beauty
but just released you early to escape
a harder, crueller end.