honeycomb

blanket her 

stirring summer breeze 

the fletching sun nocks towards the moon’s bow

trails of fire across the firmament 

frayed threads 

flax unspun and birds flown away  

daughter of a mother, a grandmother, of 

freya, venus, rhiannon 

in the shadow of an olive grove

her hair tangled 

archangels and buttercups weep 

stems knitted to the wild grasses 

beneath her feet

heels from ground she reaches for the branches 

they do not swarm

they do not protest

waxen wells bearing heavy nectar 

cloying and saccharine

the monks hands swell for the sake of kings

but she uses fruits of the workers’ womb 

to comb her hair 

adhere to finger tips o comb 

prongs through silk 

sweetness on lips 

drips down her breast 

the pollen of the flowers 

churns into a thirsty earth

ashes to ashes 

no longer 

will the wanton wind disturb her