A Cranefly In September

She is struggling through grass-mesh - not flying,

Her wide-winged, stiff, weightless basket-work of

Rocking, like an antique wain, a top-heavy ceremonial

Across mountain summits(Not planing over water, dipping her tail)But blundering with long strides, long reachings,

And ginger-glistening

From collision to collision.

Aimless in no particular direction,

Just exerting her last to escape out of the

Of whatever it is, legs, grass,

The garden, the county, the country, the world -Sometimes she rests long minutes in the grass

Like a fairytale hero, only a marvel can help her.

She cannot fathom the mystery of this

In which, for instance, this giant watches -The giant who knows she cannot be helped in any way.

Her jointed bamboo fuselage,

Her lobster shoulders, and her

Like a pinhead dragon, with its tender moustache,

And the simple colourless church windows of her

Will come to an end, in mid-search, quite soon.

Everything about her, every perfected

Is already superfluous.

The monstrous excess of her legs and curly

Are a problem beyond her.

The calculus of glucose and chitin

To plot her through the infinities of the stems.

The frayed apple leaves, the grunting raven, the defunct

Sunk in nettles, wait with their

Like other galaxies.

The sky's Northward September procession, the vastsoft armistice,

Like an Empire on the move,

Abandons her, tinily

With her cumbering limbs and cumbered brain.