The Mayfly.

 

The Mayfly’s life is short and sweet, in curious nature’s way;
it’s born, it fly’s and procreates, in one exciting day.
It dances in the sun’s warm rays; to find a mate it tries,
but after loves sweet ‘tete a tete’, it flutters down and dies.

 

The little mouse lives just a year, will have birth after birth.
She’ll be a Gt Gt Grand mama, before she leaves this earth.
She’ll feed her young and try to keep, from being eaten too.
One restless year of none-stop toil; it’s what she’s meant to do.

 

The dog’s life it is more than ten, a friend to man for sure.
But ‘doggy’ years is how it works; that’s seven times ten, or more.
For it’s a fact one year for us, is seven or so for them,
before they reach their journey’s end, their wagging tails to stem.

 

The horse is also man’s best friend, it’s found a favoured place.
At least that’s when it’s just in front, and there’s money on the race.
It lives some twenty years or more, a quarter century clear,
A racer, bearer, man of war, it’s served us year by year.

 

For man of course the best we’ll get, is round about the ton.
And through the years we’ve worked it out, we know how it was done.
Well some of it at least we know; of much we’re not too sure.
But just the same, as years go by, we’re learning more and more.

 

The Tortoise, well, now there’s a thing, the giant ones I mean,
they live three hundred years or so; and very seldom seen.
They’re big and slow, can’t hardly move, don’t seem to have much pace,
but as you know from Aesop’s pen, they always win the race.

 

And trees can live for ages, some like the Redwoods do,
A thousand years, or even more (that’s ten of me and you.)
The forests or the wilderness, whose wondrous tales evoke,
are host to many long lived types, not least our favoured oak.

 

Now mountains they are very old, a zillion years I’d say.
Which sculptor’s hands did shape them all; was nature’s God at play.
And when we play, to reach the heights, and scan the vistas there,
I wonder if we stop to think, who made them, when and where?

 

And what of earth, this spinning sphere, a dance with stars on high,
for eons past, a timeless waltz, though dark and endless sky.
It’s journey vast to simple eyes, infinity around,
but just a dot in natures scheme, not a murmur, not a sound.

 

For the universe is the key, without reason, without rhyme,
incomprehensible to all, in it’s vastness, space, and time.
Yes time, the greatest mystery, most people would contend,
for who can grasp the notion that there’s no beginning and no end.

 

And all the heavenly bodies, in myriad profusion shine,

for eons drifting ‘randomly’, the creators endless shrine.
So who can fail to wonder, in that eternity of space,
That the tiny mayfly beets its wings, to claim its rightful place.