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Tree of Holy Waistcoats
I wouldst fain sit in thy branches today
supping chai with the Queen of Bees
and her lovely topaz ladies
wearing dewy jewellery on their fuzzy brows
musician birds plucking at leafy strings
poets composing harp-blossom words
to read by cinnamon firelight
in the gloomy gloaming
when shadows and the things that cast them
have stopped their daytime roaming
and settle down to dream.

Put your soft-downed hand in mine,
lovely Lady of the Bees;
walk with me to where Milky Streams meander
and I will show you the tiny coracle I've fashioned this day
from a fruit-pod of the Undying Wood
with little spider-silk sails handstitched and 'broidered
with russet, vermillion and gold
filched from the Paintbox of Olde
that Death keeps in his shoulder-scrip.


Lady of Bees, you have stolen my heart
my head was bound to follow,
speak to me with the rustling of bats
and the love-song of the swallow.
Old Owl hoots as we pass beneath
his silver-gilded bower.
Soon it will be the hour when the Priestess Moon
rises above the Mountains of Mist,
resplendant in her finery
all her burnished paladins shining brightly
in their silver armour,
vizors cast back that they might laugh the louder
when the Wind Lord greets their Mistress
with a fragrant shower of blossom and fallen stars
redolent with honeysuckle and clover
from spicey groves beyond the rim of the World.


Lady of Bees, you are my own furry-girl
clad in your waistcoat of wonder
- my tongue is tired with gossamer,
with honeyed adjectives and verbs.
Put me out of my misery and kiss me.