Each in bird a hive to grow,
to tell of quiets lest profound,
to make the bee-buzz brim,
waft-like swoon of beak to bulb, a brief repast,
in ground, inside; an inescapable palette
even as the white bloom of flies
in saffron beds, be bold be, of the bee
you swivel, darling, there above the yew;
in a field that swells with the burst of grain,
dipped and then green after a week of un-taste.
below we bow –
blest be you for cutpurse flight.
© Eve Redwater 2012