June Bug

It must have been drawn to the reading light.
I was with Captain Cook in Poverty Bay , a place
so fertile and well settled the Maori wouldn't yield
an inch to the diplomacy of small arms fire
or beads. As the first warrior fell I heard a thump
in the room like a cupboard shutting or a book
falling to the floor. When I finally gave up
on the Captain, his misgivings, his ill spirits
misnaming a land, and forsook Endeavour
for my own berth, something slight and hard
dropped from the dark to scrape my cheek.
On my outstretched arm a scarab the size
of a finger joint, like a brooch of beaten copper
with a green armoured face. Still seized
by the zeal of the ship's quota of draughtsmen
and philosophers, I knew I should draw it
or take a photograph at least. But it was late.
I put it out, closed the window. Sleep
carried me up a creek where tattooed warriors
pulled faces, inedible fruit dropped from the trees
and for the first but not the last time, home
was an idea so remote I doubted it was real.

(from Another Place)

© Mike Barlow