Summertime at the bog (Poem)

Waves of colour blink on and off
like slow motion Christmas lights, bright

frills and fluffs ruffling in the warm wind. Near-sighted blackflies and bumble

bees hover, then alight, on fragrant petals. Bog laurels cup magenta light, a ring

of little lampshades, upside-down.
Pastel orange of bakeapples bulge from the grasp

of five sepals, an overflowing purse of sweetness. The white fringed orchid, a milky inflorescence,

dangles into sweet nectar spurs. Red bulbs
of pitcher plants glisten wet on spongy moss,

while their fleshy veined leaves lure mosquitoes to perish in a putrid protein shake,

among carcasses, a leg here, a wing there. Almost hidden, below scrubby branches,

wispy sundews clasp crystal droplets, and cling like Velcro to the unlucky: lives

of roaming insects flicker out in rhythm, in the summertime at the bog.