To see intact insects inside blobs of amber is pretty impressive; but does anyone stop to think that the creature inside was some poor insect mother’s child? I did:
’Twas amber got my Flossie.
I’d warned her every day:
“Don’t go near any pine trees,”
I always used to say.
But kids don’t listen, do they?
Especially to their mother;
Whatever you say in one ear,
Goes straight through and out the other.
“Oh Mum! The risk is miniscule,”
She’d argue back at me,
“And even if I do get stuck
I’ll easily wriggle free.”
We did some grown-up talking
Which did no good at all;
I ended up just bashing
My head on her brick wall.
She flew off one fine morning
To catch a juicy grub
A-wriggling and a-squirming
On a tree. And there’s the rub . . .
Six legs. . . all trapped in amber . . .
There’s no more I can say.
There seems no joy in anything
Since Flossie passed away.
If there’s a God in Heaven,
He really, really oughta
Stop pine trees oozing resin
That fossilised my daughter.