Golden Grasshopper. Tiny red spiders not even as big as a pin head. Butterflies, brown and white. Flies of all kinds. It is a secret world of low buzzing, warbling, staccato sounds. A bee. So many different kinds of flying things. Tiny iridescent green-and-black. Ladybird-like beetle mostly red. An orangey-brown butterfly. Under a leaf another ladybird-like beetle with huge black spots. A hoverfly which settled on the page of my notebook.
A lovely greyish-white butterfly with a spot like a full stop or beauty mark on each wing. Powdery and papery – made me think of those little old fashioned books of Papier a Poudre – books of powdered leaves ladies would have in their handbags for those shiny-nose moments. The scent of dog roses – a whiff of Pond’s cold cream that instantly brought my grandmother to mind. Though the banks of Deptford Creek the most unlikely place for her manisfestation.
I sat like a stone amongst the grasses and just listened to the insect noises. In the hot sun it was hypnotic and began to sound almost orchestrated. The heat and the waving grasses began to have an hallucinatory effect. I remembered a junkie friend at art school warning me off drugs (“You are as mad as a snake already” Johnnie S – I can’t help feeling this was a slight exaggeration even for those days but you get my drift). The heat beat down and the grasses shimmered and the air was alive with tiny buzzing creatures. How have we managed to so completely screw up such an amazing world?