Blessed are the birchmarked trees and pilchard burn,
the brought-out batteries of packed sardines and mellow tails –
the beekeepers net, soft and wild. Linen, muslin; fabric-genius.
The holders of honey.
The bees sough, graze flower tongues and meet their Queen,
clandestine sorceress in jail-break colour.
Take chance and mount the hill beside, the lofty light,
and watch as pen to diary makes: to tell what of leaves,
a brier of twigs and fox-foot-fossils left in mud.
© Eve Redwater 2012
[Hello everyone! I've written this poem as a kind of addendum to The Bees - a poetic partnership of sorts. This week has been eaten up by my dissertation, phew - I've got some catching up to do!]