This is dragonfly weather,
the air thick with pollen dust,
the canal bank an explosion of colour
as hedgerows come into blossom.

And then my eye catches them,
the minute flickers on the retina
of the metallic reds, greens and blues
of the dragonflies, the restless

shuttle of their flight-paths
as they dart from one point to another
plotting the water’s surface
with their ghost geometries.

And then as I hunker down
at the water’s edge, it is there:
the flame-red exclamation of a demoiselle
at eye level, its weightless flicker

and pulse as it hovers above
the surface, a vector of pure thought
poised and ready for movement
should I as much as quiver.

And I do quiver, stared out
there in the morning sunlight
by the glass-eyed, crystalline glare
of the living, the air trembling

with a felt absence as the dragonfly
disappears into the shadows
like a faded apparition
of what had been made

knowable to the senses.

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