I once lived in fear of the dragonfly.
The sound of its name would terrify.
If the back of my shirt were a landing place
At least I would not see the alien’s face.
They must come from somewhere in outer space
But how did they get those fine wings made of lace?
The colours are lovely, my eye wants to dwell
On the spacesuit that’s muted but shiny as well.
Its legs, like a model’s, are fine and quite lean
Perhaps I was wrong and it’s really not mean.
It’s just having fun as it climbs up the railing,
I pray that it’s strong and its grip is not failing.
Its wee little voice calls as loud as it can,
“Just look at me. Look! I am Spiderman.”