The Beekeeper’s Wife
They fuzz him into loveliness.
A roving gold,
like dark water strummed by light.
The liquid sun
of honey on the sill, all morning
strained
through glass.
It is out there he is most alive.
In the stilled green, the razed grass.
It is out there he thrills
in the centre of his silence.
His beard’s dazzle
and stitch, the endless hum
of the swarm.
Only the bees fly in his garden.
The laundry waves
white flags from the yard.
In bee-heaven, his is the shape
they make. Bringer
of combs and sweetenings,
milk-smelling God –
I tend the hollyhocks,
stroke barks back
into the dog.
Cheryl Pearson lives in Manchester. Her poems have appeared in publications including The Guardian, Southword, Under The Radar, The High Window, and Poetry NorthWest. Her first full poetry collection, “Oysterlight”, was published by Pindrop Press in March 2017.
Author page: http://www.pindroppress.com/poets/Cheryl%20Pearson.html
Twitter: https://twitter.com/cherylpea
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