I'm back in Italy, and this week our small town smells like heaven; ivy blossoms are opening all along our garden fence, and on walls and trees and hedges all around town. Magical! The bees are delighted too. They've reminded me of this poem, from my collection 'White Roads' (Paekakariki Press 2018)
Before Closing Time
What would it taste like, ivy honey?
Would you dare? On my mind’s tongue
I sample green notes dulled by dust,
*
how it would tease my throat;
cling with a passion, hint at poison.
There are only so many harvest days.
*
Today, the bees are frantic;
hundreds reel between the flowers.
They can’t stop, it’s so plentiful -
*
there’s more music in the garden
than that day the pears were picked
in a hurry; the day before Winter.
*
Yes, they’re all still open: waxy petals
in the ivy tree, bees’ restless wings.
Before Closing Time
What would it taste like, ivy honey?
Would you dare? On my mind’s tongue
I sample green notes dulled by dust,
*
how it would tease my throat;
cling with a passion, hint at poison.
There are only so many harvest days.
*
Today, the bees are frantic;
hundreds reel between the flowers.
They can’t stop, it’s so plentiful -
*
there’s more music in the garden
than that day the pears were picked
in a hurry; the day before Winter.
*
Yes, they’re all still open: waxy petals
in the ivy tree, bees’ restless wings.
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