Waxen

In a lane where the summer light falls soft and amber, a field of bees, the air itself turns something warm, every leaf’s whisper—wax‑en gloss against the dusty afternoon.

The sun, a coloured lantern, climbs high over the hedgerows, rustles the poet’s notebook beside the river. A thimble of honey, a silver‑edged gloss that mirrors the old tea‑room rehearsal of a silent theatre.

There in the crown of the oak, a tumble of golden grain, fingers smoothed the rough bark— the old sapling’s skin, wax‑en smooth, blanketing the thin‑cut pine like a far‑reaching, cautious, quiet favour paid by the earth itself.

When the twilight settles in a soft clutch, the world is bruised, but these buds still hold their shine— a whispered hymn of wax‑en art, lined in quiet theory, or a painting of a day that could not be longer.