C7

C7 No bigger than a drop of blood on a finger pricked by a thorn, it marches along the stem of a rosebush; a Grenadier guard in its crimson uniform, with seven spots exactly splashed across its coat. Not a random flick of a paintbrush, but like a soldier’s chevron; its rank, its classification. It rises ready to do battle with the greenfly that hide amongst soft petals until confronted with my outstretched fingers onto which it clambers. I hold it aloft and blow a soft breath across its tiny body. Its wings fan open and like a fire-rescue helicopter, it flies away home.