I see them from the window, so busy as they play in the dying Sun.
They ride the heat waves on the steps.
Black angry clouds of anarchy.
Waiting for man or beast to enter their chaotic domain.
Diving, twirling they fall upon their prey, no eye is safe to their onslaught of havoc.
No ear is guarded to highly, all mouths are fair game in this war of terror.
Somehow the victims all survive, escaping to tell the tale of the vicious hoard.
Small numbers, mortality wounded cut down by the fretting and waving arms of death.
A few carried off unhurt in hair or clothes to pastures knew.
A car and travel; perhaps the greatest prize in this battle.
A haven and nirvana, the Promised Land and pastures new.
But as the sun drops and night falls across my stairs.
Where do all the flies go?

 

Alex Hazlewood june 2016