Beekeeper poem from Dèr Mouw this time

I, beekeeper, oft send my host of thoughts

out swarming, when the night stands glitt’ring clear

with world-flowers, which the Great Soul lets appear

and bloom, that visionary vast and fraught.

I’m strangely present in each one out there,

and cull eternal essence as they roam:

into my soul, a scent, a honeycomb,

the white rose  found in Berenice’s hair.

The semi-conscious swarm my love lets stray

to star-beds bordering the Milky Way,

my peacock, mystic moth in night’s deep well:

they bring back to the hive their sacred load,

then from my words, both white and soft, they mould

and form my verse, cell next to starlight cell.