We don't kill the pretty things. |
The Saving Grace Of Comely Colours It is uncivil, you see, to murder a ladybug. It wears the more passionate colours of a late northern season, on a polished back which gleams like candied armour. It could be the polka dots or the gentle nips on our skin which leave no impression but whatever the reason, there are no grounds for flattening this beetle beneath a heavy, human hand. With outstretched wings, and a flash of copper or claret, they are daunting in flight; but the beauty stuns you; they become ethereal, pleasingly ambrosial, and there’s an instant softening of once hardened intent. A mosquito cannot evoke such awe, as there is something savage about them, with their contemptible, predacious buzzing. They possess no moving beauty, so a rolled paper or clenched fist seem an appropriate and merciful release. But, the mosquito has the last word, as a quick spray of red splatters, spurting from the broken, grey wire body, like a Pollock on canvas. You study it, with some morbid fascination and deduce after a moment of scrutiny that this is your very own blood. And the moths, with their fast-forward flutters and penchant for fine fabric, incite no kind feeling when sloppy frays and patches take shape in favourite sweaters or woven rugs. Instead, there is a flurry of swats and swipes which, with any luck, results in the beautiful star spray of silvery, copper cruor, gleaming metallic in the calm, soft light. It is the ladybug, or lady bird, or lady beetle, if you like, which seems regal to the humans in the garden. Saintly, like loaves and fishes, it brings providence and prophecy, simply by the grace of its well-placed spots. It will devour every aphid with a brutal sort of gluttony, but all is forgiven, because the flowers are safe and it wipes its mouth when the meal is done. Somehow it’s sad that there is no mystery in any of its freedoms. |