Swamp Lord
Soft awing amid the cattails surrounding the fen,
swift flyer slipping in among the reeds as if by magic.
four wings beating their own tattoo, to their own ken,
agile seeker of their own truth, to their own beat they click.
Long tailed flyer with such easy grace,
darting here and there, as if they ruled the place
Flitting by so insolent right by my face,
and I watch them amused by their swift pace.
Humming in swift and daring flight they rise,
and then as swift disappear like the magicians they are.
Lords of the swamp and meadows for all their size,
and I honor them as such, for the wonder they are!
Iridescent jewels that tempt and tease the watcher’s eye,
for they are summer’s oft missed treasure too be sure.
a reminder that art is a living thing against the sky,
and I, but a visitor to their gallery amid reed and cocklebur.
Daring bird and a swift human hand they flit,
and win again and again as they hunt and mate.
Wondrous the moment and then it passes on as I sit,
enraptured by the Dragonfly in the afternoon passing late.