Death of the Honey Bee Copyright © Richard J Whiting 2011

(For Amy Winehouse)

I remember you,
Early spring
Showered in nectar,
Perfectly poised;
Breeze bullied
By the last breath
Of winter.

You stood singing;
Each word precision,
A tiny cell
Of honey-dripping
Sweet clarity
From your hive
Of beauty.

A taste, unique;
For you drank as deeply
Of the nightshade
As of the rose;
Left just two
Pots of gold
To fuel our festivals.

Autumn brought its frost;
You flew too close to the sun;
Dangerously high.
And the swine of the forest floor
Waited for your stumble,
Waited for the fall;
And were not disappointed

When you delivered,

The sting.