A honey sonnet by Dèr Mouw

honey

I see, into a crystal-ordered whole

of liquid-golden colonnades packed tight,

– on purple heath shines August’s midday light –

an ochre honeycomb in a blue bowl.

And it’s as if small shadows half-striated

through humming, gleaming stillness leave a trace;

and it’s as if, before my mortal face,

summer stands wholly transsubstantiated.

Glacier of midday gleam, snow-clad with wax,

the silver twisting of the lamp-light glides

to fragrant vale of green-reflecting rummer

along the melting steepness of your sides.

Am I a priest? Profaner? – From sweet racks

I eat divinity of sun and summer.