Winter tells,
of a feast of tears
in a threadbare jacket.
Smell season’s mildew,
black dog’s damp coat.
Waiting for summer’s return
the honey makers.
Mourned by
the grown children,
scions of a derelict church.
In a world taken
to wrack,
by parents who
could not dream.
Imagine, a buzzing
hot long ago.
Seeking the nectar
through prehistoric skies.
Blue like ours,
but no birds.
Ancient avians were
there,
crashing through
tree and scrub.
Bees and monsters
keeping
their strange company.
©️ Dai Fry 23rd January 2020.