Skinny, soft-skinned insect
In a field of plague-browned green.
Brilliant eyes of bright green-blue -
A smile that’s rarely seen.

The buzz of mowers, loud machines
Shake the sweating dirt.
Already skinny, soft-skinned insects
Shiver in their hurt.

No defence, no tender cover.
No protective shield.
Earthquakes, blades and petrol motors
Tend to test the yield

Of patience – careful methods.
Even insects have to sleep
Before the mowers come to throw
Their thoughts into the deep.

Before the plague-browned grass is sliced,
And cut across the vein.
Even insects need to rest
So they can breathe again.

Skinny, soft-skinned insect
Pinned upon a glossy sheet.
What’s the point of living
When there isn’t room to cheat?