The Thinking Poet



Mayfly in the Spring-scented air

Your wings are not yet dry.

As sub imago, stupefied,

Poised between pupa and perfection,

You blink disbelieving at a world unknown,

Vaguely sensing that through blossom blown

You soon will rise exultant to the skies.

Did you, through those long dim nymphian days

Suspect that from your watery haze

You would emerge, transformed?

Or that your drab, diffusive light should come from this fierce fiery sun

By which your frail, transparent glory is now warmed?

Mayfly couched on the Spring-scented earth

Assuming final birth,

Imago, transfigured, perfected;

Prepare now for the bliss of sun ascent

And leap incredulous into worlds of cloud.

As borne by an increscent winged power

You rise triumphant in the lark-tuned air.

How could you, in those now forgotten streams

Intimate from any nymphian dreams

This ecstasy of flight?

Or guess the fear impelling flight towards the shade

Should be sublimed

In this, your bold unbridled climb towards the light?

Mayfly wafted on the evening air

Your wings grow tired,

Spent, yet splendidly fulfilled.

Prepare now for the bliss of final sleep.

You, and your fleeting day, they say, will die.

But death you know and value as rebirth,

The welcome step of unimagined worth.


Ron Cretchley 27.7.67