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By Matthew Francis

All afternoon a reddish trickle


out of the roots of the beech

and across the lawn,

a sort of  rust that shines and dances.


Close up, it proves to be ant,

each droplet a horned

traveler finicking its way round


the crooked geometry

of a grass forest.

A finger felled in their path rocks them,


amazed, back on their haunches.

I see them tasting

the air for subtle intelligence,


till one ventures to scale it,

and others follow.

They are fidgety subjects to draw.


If you sink the feet in glue

the rest twists and writhes;

kill one, the juices evaporate


in seconds, leaving only

the shriveled casing.

I dunked one in brandy. It struggled


till the air rose from its mouth

in pinprick bubbles.

I let it soak an hour, then dried it,


observed the spherical head,

the hairlike feelers,

the grinning vice of its sideways jaw,


the coppery armor plate

with its scattered spines.

Some draft stirred it then. It rose to all


its feet, and set off across

the rough miles of desk.

Source: Poetry (October 2014)

Poet Bio

Matthew Francis is the author of four Faber and Faber poetry collections, most recently Muscovy (2013). He lives in West Wales, UK, and lectures in creative writing at Aberystwyth University.

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