Missing

A poem about nature

Speaking as one who is oft bitten whose blood has sustained many a pregnant or would be mother, whose wheals and lumps have disturbed many a summer nights sleep, I miss the midges.

The fleck of terror, a whine so familiar, the black clouds, dancing, gathering under trees, in the shadows, waiting for warm fragrant flesh to wander past unwittingly, a meandering meal I miss the midges

Those screaming swooping swallows heralding summer flying open beaked, collecting midges up in their millions at dawn and dusk, feeding their young in mud baskets attached to our house walls I miss the swallows

Now the midges are all but gone

I am much favoured by biting insects. I used to have to take anti-histamines until I took up beekeeping. Since being stung a few times by my much loved girls, I no longer seem to react to insect bites as much, but the midges still do go after me.

However this year I seem to have escaped all but one bite thus far. There is plenty of time still of course, but I am also missing a sky full of flying blue darts as the lack of food has taken such a toll on the survival rates of both house martins and swallows. This year I have seen barely any, last year not much better. I am happy to go back to being bitten if it means a return of the birds that feed on them, but I fear they are much harder to replace. I have noticed the same thing in the evening when the darkening sky would be filled with the flying forms and shadows of bats out collecting up the last lingering midges and moths of the evening sky. They too are rarely seen now and again so hard to replace populations decimated by loss of habitat and food.

Mostly we get bitten by midges and mossies at dusk when the females are out hunting for blood so they can mate and sustain their young. Horse and deer flies are more likely to bite during the heat of the afternoon, and boy do those ones hurt afterwards. But my best bites ever were in Peru in MAchu Pichu and they itcched like nothign else on earth, and bled for quite a long time too. These flies were called ‘Pumahuacachi’ trnslated from the Quechua as ‘he who make the puma cry’. I have been known to acquire a massive 38 moz bites on my bum when once trekking and camping in Peru through the Alto Madre de Dios. I had liberally sprayed myself with deet over every exposed bit of skin but had not reckoned with the need to have a pee, which meant exposing my bum for just those few moments. Impressive biting speed ensued and I had to sit on those bites, on hard plank seats in the canoe for the next few days.