Buzzing Poem by James Mills

Last night, hunting inspiration,
I turned again to Mr Heaney.
Sometimes just one word
of his is enough to
let some of my own spill -
not tonight though.

Instead I found a bug,
spread-eagled inside 'North'.
As perfect as poetry
its dessicated carcass
imprinted sure as memory
amongst the great man's thoughts,
and I smiled to think it had
expired willingly upon the page -
buzzing - like the rest of us.