Christmas Beetles

"Is that one, Mummy?"
"No darling that's just an ordinary little beetle."
"But what do they look like?"
As I sit writing these prose I spy,
On the curtain,
It's sharp little legs caught in circa 1950s,
Lace curtain,
My fourth Christmas beetle of the year.
Three others were spotted encased in white silk,
On the weather side of the kitchen window.
I noticed them in their haute couture shrouds,
As I did the dishes.
Christmas beetles are a pleasant reminder,
Of ghosts of Christmas past.
When they cracked neath your thongs,
As you ventured out across the verandah,
For a nocturnal excursion to the outhouse.
Their whirring flutter past your face,
As they headed for the porch light.
Could be equally unnerving.
As children we'd befriend a Christmas beetle,
And keep them in a match box.
We never really knew what to feed them,
So always shoved in some kikuyu.
Christmas beetles are large and scratchy.
You can hear them scrabble about on the timber floor.
They feel very tickley in your hand,
If they are moving about.
I have found this sensation so uncomfortable,
That I have dropped my little beetle onto the floor.
They are not brown, but they are.
They are not wholly green, but they are, in part.
Also blue and even a little reddish.
They are a browny, greeny, slightly bluey with a tinge of red,
Shining opal colour.
Like an abalone shell.
Their presence is more 'Christmas' to me.
Than any pocksy California pine stuffed unceremonially into a sand filled bucket.
And they're prettier too.