BEE

You busy? Nah, not really. Just supping at a pint o’ Brakspears outside the Dreadnought. Ignoring the warnings of Weil and Verlaine, we strip to our shorts and dive into the Thames, shocking cool even on a summer’s day. We submerge, our eyes, ideas, identities, in the murmur of bees and dream of honey, read Yeats’ Isle of Innisfree. When a beekeeper dies a swarm will beard his house. We dream of being stung; wake up swollen, stiff and sore.

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