To celebrate the re-opening of the local pool after three long weeks of Essential Maintenance, I had a well-deserved cup of tea at my usual table outside and began writing in my notebook.
After the usual trivia that gets me started I noticed what I first took to be a wasp or a bee, hovering in front of my face. The 'hovering' aspect of the insect's activity suggested that it was neither of the first two and was probably some form of hoverfly.
So far, so ordinary. But the thing did not move, and I was able to look back at something that was looking at me.
As the seconds passed I was drawn to the insect's eyes which, in proportion to its head and body, seemed enormous, and I fancied that I could actually make out some texture on their surface.
I'm sure that all the normal early-morning sounds of a busy gym/pool with a very popular school next door continued unabated as we watched each other, but I was not conscious of them.
And then with a zig-zag it was gone.
I wrote notes for this poem before I left the pool.
And what follows is a re-edited version of what I published first.
On Looking Into the Eyes of a Hoverfly
It stopped, a hoverfly, in front,
directly in my line of sight
(if hoverfly it was)
and looked.
Unmoving. Still.
Parentheses of blurs.
A lively, static elegance.
It stayed for longer,
in one place,
than insects mostly do
when sizing up a Quinbus Flestrin
made up of nutrient and meat.
What did it think?
(If think it did.)
What understanding passed across
the seconds’ void?
I felt its challenge,
perhaps stand-off,
faceting my face.
I was arrested, held,
within a faster life
that stopped and stared.
(If stared it did.)
This stasis, small,
should prompt
some useful thought.
Alas! No thoughts at all
behind that steady stare
at little life
that stared right back.
I did not move
to brush away the visitor,
my hand held back
by fear
that it might sting.
A sudden forward move,
and then oblique.
Away.
And it was gone.
The image of those
almost black and gleaming
other eyes
remains.
