Today I found this female cranefly, Tipula paludosa, resting quietly in a cage of rushes. The Juncus in the windobox has grown large enough to serve this sort of purpose.
The insect dangled unmoving within the shelter of the plant and it reminded me, as craneflies always do of Yeats's poem:
That civilisation may not sink,
Its great battle lost,
Quiet the dog, tether the pony
To a distant post;
Our master Caesar is in the tent
Where the maps are spread,
His eyes fixed upon nothing,
A hand under his head.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.