The Fly

William Blake came to mind as I sit poised to swat a pesky little bugger who is invading the breakfast hour in this lovely cabin. “Pim” and I sit opposite sides of the table with the swatter poised to deliver the death blow as “Panita” works the coffee table area.

And now I’m feeling a tad guilty for attempting to end this little life so swiftly. He is annoying though. Sigh. I shall be a happy fly today. And this little guy having survived two attempts at meeting his demise, may just live another day.

Little fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

The Fly, William Blake