Locust

They land in the pine circle at dawn;

One of many,

She unfurls herself, checks her vitals 

Monitors, memorises, calculates,

Then lays herself out in the glade to dry. 

Her wings crisp in September sun, 

The hairs on her legs begin to grow back, 

Dark and thin as thorns. 

At dusk, she works her way into the heart

Of a wind-tilted tree 

Bracing her feelers as flesh falls away to bone 

Securing to sylvan self; 

There, she waits out the winter,

Ready to drink in the sap as it rises with the spring.

Then, and only then,

They will each suck a tree dry 

Before uncurling fresh wings the colour of pine resin,

And reducing this world to husks.