Hello lovely readers and as ever, thank you for being here. I’ll confess I’ve not had as much time to devote to the reciprocal blog reading as I’d have liked these past weeks, but I just wanted to say that I appreciate every visit, “like” and comment here immensely. In the meantime, here’s a quick re-post of a poem that came back to mind yesterday after attending a “literary walk” here in Worcester, along the banks of our river Severn. “Words on Water” featured a number of local poetry and prose writers dotted at intervals along our river, followed by a picnic on the grass in a nearby park. All very English! It was a delightful way to spend a Sunday, with such a variety of pieces from all the writers involved.
I read my poem “Our Water” – complete with serendipitous swans lurking nearby… “Our Water” can be found here!
One slightly unexpected theme stood out among the contributors – wasps! So, here I thought I’d share again my rather sting-y poem with a mention to the wretched creatures…
Autumn-slowed, lazy buzzing,
opportunistic – anything weak and juicy.
Crushed windfalls decaying in dead leaves.
Tender pink child-palms clapping in playgrounds.
Tasty sandwiches unwrapped for lunch in the park.
Floral perfume, neck-warmed and drifting to tempt.
Three-day-matured roadkill stray dog. Maggoty good.
Ooh yes… She twitches, then…
homes in, hangs around, annoys and injects.
Feeds and infects. Small-scale parasite,
nearing the end of her use to her nest.
(She was only reproductive.)
Not welcomed and not loved, anywhere:
no honey to bribe benign smiles.
Just a flying flick of recurring irritation,
hovering unwanted, that sound in your ear,
always in the way, always in your face.
She makes her presence felt,
stinging on a whim,
spiteful and quivering.
Because she can.
A little threat.
A little power.
She is end-of-season drunk, fuzzy body
swollen with stolen nectar, high on
swooping to prey. If she is soon to die,
she will hurt someone first.
She will make them sorry
they didn’t show her more respect.
Sorry they saw her as a pest,
something to be whacked at
with a rolled up newspaper,
sworn at and shoved away,
batted out of the window.
Or simply squished.
I could almost be sad for her…
She wanted to be the Queen Bee,
but really she is just a wasp.