March Flies of the Mornington Peninsula, Victoria
Way down south of mainland Australia,
Squinting in vain to see neighbouring Tasmania.
Panoramic views of raw rock, gold sand,
Taper away into a blinding horizon.
Though it’s not always idyllic,
Courtesy of Bass Strait comes big swell.
And tyrannical rips that’ll drag you to drowning peril.
Heck! Here is where Harold Holt made his impromptu farewell.
His body never recovered…
A Prime Ministerial death accidental…
But, tides and tribulations aside,
What’s really irksome are the February March flies!
Like torpedoes piercing the air,
They dart with precision- too nimble to ensnare.
It’s the females, the bloodsuckers,
Slashing my skin with their serrated, scimitar blades.
Then suckling my blood and voila!
In turn more eggs sinfully get laid.
So their cycle perpetuates;
An exasperating existence.
Drawn to movement and CO2;
Futilely I endeavour to keep my distance.
By the seashore my toes barely tread-
I’m bailed up at beached seaweed
By a brigade of biting flies,
Striking bare limbs in high-speed blitzkrieg.
Stricken with panic,
Arms flail faster.
Antagonized, the flies rile up then-
OUCH! A serene dip turned disaster.
Here in lies the Mornington dilemma:
Unoccupied, picturesque beaches and bays
Beguiling from afar,
Until the uncalled for march fly finale!
It’ll have your entire body in a flurry,
You’ll scramble in a red-faced hurry,
Fleeing the assiduous March fly calamity
To catch your breath, then venture on for serenity.