POEM OF THE DAY

A FRIEND exploring the Arrochar Alps last week came under attack by an army of midges. Edwin Morgan’s singular insect, below, is alarmingly blood-thirsty as she cheers on her sisters. In the case of this scourge of the Highlands, the female of the species is the dangerous one. (From Morgan’s Collected Poems, Carcanet, 1997.)

MIDGE

The evening is perfect, my sisters. The loch lies silent, the air is still.

The sun’s last rays linger over the water and there is a faint smirr, almost a smudge of summer rain. Sisters, I smell supper, and what is more perfect than supper? It is emerging from the wood, in twos and threes, a dozen in all, making such a chatter and a clatter as it reaches the rocky shore, admiring the arrangements of the light. See the innocents my sisters, the clumsy ones, the laughing ones, the rolled-up sleeves and the flapping shorts, there is even a kilt (god of the midges you are good to us!). So gather your forces, leave your tree trunks, forsake the rushes, fly up from the sour brown mosses to the sweet flesh of face and forearm. Think of your eggs. What does the egg need?

Blood, and blood. Blood is what the egg needs.

Our men have done their bit, they’ve gone, it was all they were good for, poor dears. Now it is up to us. The egg is quietly screaming for supper, blood, supper, blood, supper! Attack, my little Draculas, my Amazons! Look at those flailing arms and stamping feet.

They’re running, swatting, swearing, oh they’re hopeless.

Keep at them, ladies. This is a feast. This is a midsummer night’s dream. Soon we shall all lie down filled and rich, and lay, and lay, and lay, and lay and lay.