Wednesday 11 December 2019

A grandma poem (JI)


was stung on the top of the head
so she said
the unseen bee’s barb
like some erratic soldering-iron
rewired the circuits
setting off private pyrotechnics
and the smell of sparks

in the post-bee period
grandma packed brown paper parcels
and hid them under the bed
along with herself
for the war was at its height
the bombers overhead
loaded with bee-stings

but before the bee struck
when grandma was eccentric
rather than electric
she packed parcels too
beneath christmas wrappings
layers and layers of newspaper
cardboard boxes like russian dolls
there always lay
a dull green threepenny bit

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