There’s no road, just a path-- Dorothy Yamamoto
between Coke cans, nettles
michaelmas daisies gone wild.
ISAAC’S PARTY someone has chalked
next to a blue arrow.
The bees are across a railway bridge
and swathes of unmown grass—
a new brave hive
on a wide wooden stage.
They are very small, not furry, one
climbs up my leg, slow and effortful.
I listen to the whirr of traffic
from the ring road
and watch a few circle
in a casual bracelet rather like midges, but bees definitely
bees who are here, who will dance their way
around the fires of rough sleepers
and under the songs of the pylons
tiny, improbable, channelling sweetness.