From which infernal pit are you,
small demon hungering for blood?
D. H. called you Monsieur – not true,
you’re Madame, spawned in stagnant flood.
With a proboscis, ever so sly,
and filmy wings, six dainty shanks,
you circle like an airborne spy,
then hover, ready to break ranks,
and make a dive to pierce my skin
right through the thickest shirt or sock,
to siphon off the life within
that keeps you droning round the clock.
But I'm on to your little game
as dusk reveals your nasty threat,
you wispy mote without a name,
lured from afar by scent of sweat.
A floater still beyond my sight,
you lurk behind the darkened hedge,
till wafting towards me through dim light . . .
My zapper! Now I have an edge!
I clutch the racket poised to swing –
Wimbledon champion, full attack –
and serve up sparks at anything
darting about my face or back.
I wave, you dodge, we rally on,
our dancing set of swoop and dive,
till one sharp backhand, swiftly done –
spells . . . crackle-sizzle . . . fried alive!
But you are legion in the night
so others mobilised nearby,
and, brazenly audacious, bite
my racket hand, my neck, my thigh.