The Bees

Sunlight feathering time-weary strands
of a father’s greying hair, and the flashing
of silver in his amber-green eyes...shoulders
all tanned.

The little clenched fist of one of the kid’s
wiping tears from her cheeks, and another’s –
trying to coax the quavering edge of the makings
of a smile.

A grandmother’s palms pressed together
in prayer, saying grace at the table...stifled squeals
as a spider runs amok on the raspberry blancmange
and a trifle.

A small, grey church, a bell, and the thin, brown line
of the humming of the bees...the trying to un-hear
as the skin of the evening breaks...to un-feel
the sting of wet grass on her legs; to undo
the undoing.