"October Brought The Last One Of The Year ....

.... And laid it sleeping on your window-frame.
It stood for winter, and the failing game,
The end of something, and death coming near.
Drowned in a jug, with cardboard slid across
To keep it under, it sleeps always now,
Its warrior’s head bent sideways, like a bow
Made to an enemy, for the mortal loss.
I see its body, simple as a cone
Of pine or douglas fir, cypress or spruce.
It has no meaning, scarcely any use
Except to make more precious all we own,
The last of life, and living in this place,
Year in, year out, with what we have and hold,
Great barns, and trees, and somewhere to grow cold
And die in, when the time comes, with some grace
In folded honour, free from bitterness
Or rancour, and not losing elegance
At the last, as this dead hornet’s final chance
Left it a scoop of terror. That, O yes."

The Hornet by George MacBeth

It is October and I did find this hornet on the kitchen window frame. It wasn't sleeping but distressed, it kept lifting and waggling individual legs in turn but it didn't die. I opened the window and gently hoiked it out with the washing-up brush.