The March of the Cinnabars.

Through the hot days of high summer
The cinnabars perform their stately march
Along the stalks of the ragwort,
Flaunting their yellow and black robes.

The tender stalks drift in the wind
And they cling on, single minded.
Eating machines wearing gaudy finery.
Tiny soldiers who know no fear.

Slowly their jaws move,
Softly their whiskers tremble,
Gently their bodies ripple,
As they eat many times their fill.

They swell and thicken as the days pass
And I watch, entranced.



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