Stung

Stung by the sudden sting of a summer bee,
I reel beneath the amber sky’s soft gleam.
The world, once calm, now hums with frantic glee,
Each pulse a tiny, throbbing, crimson dream.

I clutch the leaf where venom left its mark,
A quiet ache that sings in British dusk.
The night draws close, a gentle, soothing spark—
Healing comes in whispers, not in fuss.

So let the sting remind me, stark and true,
That even pain can fade to softer hue.