Death Of A Fly Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Who says that flies don't mourn?
Has anyone asked them?

Some die beautifully,
Folding their black legs over their bodies
Like Catholic ballerinas

This one's a perfect mummy
In his frail Egyptian wrappings
His thin papyrus wings
His glittering eyes, all-seeing
Like spherical disco balls

Dusted by death
Let moths whisper a coronach
Over the laced-up husk of Mr. Bluebottle

The herringbone-stitch of
One fly's sable shroud.