at the bottom of the field which held my father’s crops,
the bees lived.
hives of faded wood hugged the river, owned the sun.
secret things happened here.
when the frames were full,
he would harvest the warmth of summer.
forearms straining under the weight of a chipped enamel basin full of a season,
he would leave it on the kitchen table.
that hidden things eventually find their way to the light.
wax shaped, moulded into tight pieces,
stuffed into the furthest corners of my mouth,
honey filling the cracks of a childhood, dripping
from my lips.
that there was sweetness, too.
— the secret life of things.
© Liezel Graham 2020.
Image by Damien Tupinier.
Today, is World Bee Day.
I remember the white wooden
hives at the bottom of our field.
I remember the chipped enamel basin full of summer’s sweetness.