An Inspector

The sun's gone in -
Which is a strange thought,
I've always felt, because how
Can the sun 'go in' when
It has no home to go to? -
And it's getting colder, the inside
Of my thighs no longer sweaty but sticking
Together as they freeze, and my fingers stiffening, the hairs
On my arms raising, so I think I myself will go in (and much
More effectively than any sun could ever aspire to).
         I summon the energy to
Lift up my head (then my back, then my legs and so on so forth
Until I'm completely stood)
And I grab all my stuff, which isn't much,
And begin to head in.
         Except the sun is being spiteful -
I thought peekaboo was a children's game? -
So I'm warmed again on the short trip from here to there
So I turn on my heel and shuffle back to the grass bed
And lay my things out, again.
         I check the blue above me but the heavens seem absent,
Or rather drifting off towards Bracknell to bless them with some shade,
So I lie back completely and relax.
Except I've lost that comfy position that only comes
On a blue-moon (or warm sun)
So I turn in frustration and then I'm nose to tip with the tiny blades
Of grass that sparkle just above my sweaty lip.
         There is an ant beneath me.
I appreciate the little black bug but then my thought supplies
The realisation that I am in fact sat
On top
Of many of that little black bug's friends (i should have brought a sunbed)
And now all I can see is the little black bug
Squished beneath my sweaty thighs.
The ant is dragging a dead fly
(makes me feel better, because he's a killer, too),
And the wings are colouring him purple
And the grass has curled
Around him in the wind.
         (The perfect cage for a murderer.)
His mates deserved their fate if that's what they do with their lives.
My thoughts scare me back inside.
The sun is still out.