Each in bird a hive to grow,
to tell of quiets lest profound,
to make the bee-buzz brim,
that,
waft-like swoon of beak to bulb, a brief repast,
in ground, inside; an inescapable palette
that,
even as the white bloom of flies
in saffron beds, be bold be, of the bee
dear bird,
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.
We bow,
we bow,
below we bow –
blest be you for cutpurse flight.
© Eve Redwater 2012
[Posted for DVersepoets “Poetics: New view for you”, where we were tasked to write a poem from a pool of beautiful photographs by Tracey Grumbach. I hope you enjoy my contribution today!]