Fear of Wasps

You dragged me down 
the winding lanes where sun 
and salty sweat burned hands and face. 

I recall the taste of berries,
plucked with bloodied fingers
from the spiteful branches of brambles, 
then burst delicious 
in between a tender tongue and palate.

The juice of fruit and maggot blended
sharply sweet and over-spilled my lips 
and chin in streams of sticky dribble, attracting
the interest of tenacious wasps

which you swatted, and chided me
in hissy whispers, 'Be still, child! - don't yell -
don't even breathe - they sense your fear.'

You gave them supernatural  powers.
'Still as a statue, or they'll sting you.'
And I believed; stood rock still 
until the wasps lost interest, like me

when I went off blackberries, and for years 
feigned love of rambling, until one day, 
I saw that after all, I am the rambler.
It's only you that's missing, and life's wasps

having extra sensory perception, still notice
my fear. But I'm long past standing still - 
these days I yell blue-faced and breathe 
like mad; flail my arms about my head -
an ape gone crazed. And when all else fails, 
I run like hell. From everything.