The Honey Trap — to be or not.

Insect life. Powys

Butterscotch Burnt Sugar sweet,

Nestled in your cinnamon armpit,

I pat my loneliness into wax — a waxing moon now settling on my ruche.

Skin on skin, you look like thyme -

I see you seep red heather into a creamy solid and hum with happiness.

I am the Queen.

You tender a tenderness to me which is not warranted, and I squirm

Under your constant hold –

Worry that my sacks are empty and that I shall be o’erthrown.

My oily sap resin pines for the chestnut days of far away as the wax softens -

But you won’t let go.

Butterscotch Burned, I yearn for the seas

And the buzz of the Brazilian Blue-Eyed bees.

You seal me in — I summon a flutter — yet

You butt no pleas as you spread me with butter.