18 December 2012
The last flower shed salty petals Unsupported, it slumped against glass They looked on: at a loss and without hope The final of Nature's blazes Her passion unsummered in a bell-jar Beauty decomposed and compost.
In the end, She loved us not - And not without reason: Her lonely, wandering clouds we boiled Stewed in her mellow fruitfulness The blue, remembered hills Distilled in sulphurs.
And murmured to the coughing child The fairytale. The fable. The winged midwife of poppy fields And propagator of gold. Told to the half-smiling, half breathing babe: Buzzing, swarms of memory Of days before the grip of carbon And the fiction of bees.
The Fiction Of Bees • Opuss № I