I live by the water,
This lake is my home,
My nymph is aquatic,
It doesn’t like to roam,
My legs are weak and fragile,
Walking I can’t do,
But my wings are powerful,
They carry me across the blue,
High in the trees I glide,
My length cuts through the air,
I speed above the picnickers,
They don’t know I’m there,
I’m a Yellow-winged Darter,
Sympetrum flaveolum to my friends,
Watch me as I whizz on by,
Down the river-bend.

A box on our sideboard,
Full of tiny plants,
Several thousand twigs,
And a chameleon of bugs,
The stick insect is hiding,
Shy of the leering glare,
But when you look so closely,
You’ll see he has a friend.

We’re underground,
Millions of us beneath your every step,
Eating the mud and grime,
Keep the ground fertilised through time,
We fear the gushing waters that fall from way above,
They pour into our tunnels and make rivers of our homes,
Up we come to the surface and inhale the fresh, clean air,
And watch out for the sparrows lurking somewhere out there.

Why are they scared of me?
I’m not a Tarantula,
I’m not a Black Widow,
I’m an ordinary spider,
Spinning my web of silk,
Making a home for myself on your front porch,
Stretching my web from beam to rose petal,
Each day I have to rebuild,
You brush it away.

An outcast,
A creature we despise,
It looks so small and tiny,
And has gimlet eyes,
It stalks the drains and kitchens,
And scavenges in the night,
And climbs upon our plates of food,
Such an unwelcome sight.

I look the same as other flies but my name is my flaw,
Blue Bottles are a pest but not perceived as much more,
The common House Fly is named with human charm,
I’m called Mosquito and mean you no harm,
Most of us eat nectar and us males eat nothing more,
It’s the ladies of certain sects who take the blood from your pores,
So please don’t be scared of me as you lay dishabille in the sun,
I’m not going to bite you; I am the nice one.

Summer has arrived and I’m glistening,
Bathing in the radiant rays,
The gentle things I hear when I’m listening,
Enjoying the special, bright blue days,
The spots on my back look polished and shiny,
Like the car parked on your drive,
And my red-winged case to you looks tiny,
I’m in a dream and content to be alive.