the bees of Belmontet

Lavandin du Quercy - A Lavender farm in Quercy, Belmontet, France

It is that time of year when provisions come in
from the mini-bar window sill, the heater
one-bar for vapour, from Lavandin
du Quercy - Belmontet.

The glass bottle leaks twenty-five years on
from fields of ultra violet stretching out
fresh playgrounds for honey bees,
no expiry date,

on a girl playing Pinball. Handheld,
hysterical, ‘There is no Wizard!
It’s jammed. I hate this game!’
throwing it to the ground, stamping,
screaming to one of the ball bearings, ‘Don’t panic!
Don’t worry! I’m coming in to get you!’

And falling right there,

for some such girl, in turned-up jeans
in the hand-me-down-years of faded denim, cotton,
checked, chequered, capers -
becoming lighter and softer somehow
against sunflowers and corn husks,
tearaway days of wet riverbanks and bridges;
most things green, wood or stone, until moss,
leaf and hemp wound its way
through everything. She is still there -

hair wet from the rope swing over, hands sticky
with honeycomb, sat on the wall scuffing the brickwork
shoeing away the bees of Belmontet.