You might as well try to tame that lock of brambles
with a child’s podgy hands, or tie the sky
into knots and ribbons, as attempt to catch
that purring dragonfly between thumb and forefinger.
A slim treat noisily nosing in from the window,
its giddy reel inseparable from the chaos it sweeps over:
the guidebooks and the street maps of invented places,
a book of days, the plans you were not meant to keep.
Dragonfly, Sam Meekings