Dancing from log to log, the blue damsel-fly glinted in the morning light. She hovered in mid air, wings a quiver then, hearing the guttural croak of a frog in the reeds, flew out over the centre of the pond. The frog plopped from a barely submerged rock, into the muddy waters. Concentric waves swept to the water’s edge.
An emerald green blow fly buzzed up from the muddy squelch, then descended once more onto the steadily decaying carcass of a bush rat, proboscis probing searchingly. Distended maggots oozed from the filth. The soil beneath swayed with the undulations of a mass of earth worms flourishing on the fetid matter. A short gust of wind kicked up the water, buffeting the reeds, causing the fly mass to rise as one black swarm chanting their deathly pleasure. A cockroach scuttled. A St Andrew’s Cross waited.
In death, the pond was alive.