The Sting

The Sting

A bright‑blue flash in a meadow’s hush,
the quiet hum of a bee in spring,
its wing‑beat a whisper of fate—
there, shadowed over a, red‑rimmed, petal‑ed ring.

The sting: a single, glinting spear,
a little lance kissed by honey‑scented air,
the word “pain” feels small, a mere mumble,
as the pain‑balloon inflates, splinting through my skin.

Blood, as quick‑gelling as a lorry’s brake light,
in that instant, my heart thumps a freight‑train’s hymn,
my tongue tastes a hint of beeswax and memory,
and in a moment a world of colour shifts to dim.

It looms like a burglar in the night,
the thief of serenity, an unbidden foe,
still the field of green, the buzzing wind—
shadows dancing along a haystack’s glow.

Yet the sting carries a lie, a secret sweetness:
the honey that survives, that glims and gleams—
a promise of healing in the after‑glow,
a vague reassurance that the local is also revered.

In that painful filial‑care one knows,
in the sting luck comes with flour on my boot:
a bruise which sets the stage for a fresh renaissance,
a reminder that with every sting, the mind re‑boot.