The beetle, named not for doe-like grace
but for those jaws jutting from its head
like battlements, like weapons poised
to maim. I have never seen a stag beetle
fighting, or rutting, embodying its name -
only watched their ponderous paths
through leaf litter, shining in plate armour
at the feet of sycamores.
These stags are jewelled scarabs
to a ten year old. Ancient people made gods
from them. This one, still and hollow,
I too make immortal. Curved bronze,
metallic umber shine in clouds of cotton.
Jaws cradling daisy heads,
entombed in my matchbox.
Photo by Alfred Kenneally on Unsplash
