Mrs Williams and I
A keen wind blows atop the lime kiln,
I watch as a bee weaves it's way through
Honeysuckle-blackberry-flowered-ruins,
As immortal, as the sea.
In my mind's eye I look on,
My Grandfather in his Jarvis-like suit,
Arms much longer than his sleeves,
Pin sharp in his black-rimmed glasses.
Outstretched, his hand in his 'companion's',
Who laughs as she mounts the kiln,
Her blue-rinsed curls bobbing in the breeze,
Go tell it to the Bees.
The LP scratches as Edith Piaf's 'Summertime' soars,
And though the cine film is grainy,
Your artistry remains my inspiration,
Your legs balancing, tripod-like.
My Mother recalls stories,
Of beekeeping in yonder combes,
Her life a journey up country-lanes,
Amidst truck-beds of hives.
Jolted, I sit here beside this dewilded kiln,
The wind flicking through the pages of your 'Henry's Bee Herbal'.
I too a writer - of sorts.
A honey sandwich in my rucksack.
Context:
My Grandfather, Henry Rowsell, author of 'Henry's Bee Herbal', was a Beekeeper on the Quantocks in the mid 20th Century. He stood in this very spot (lime kiln, East Quantoxhead) and made many a cine film. I wrote this poem to (audibly) weave our memories within the same space, just like the layers one can see in the cliff-faces below the lime kiln, we are layers of the same family, woven into time and space for eternity.
Go tell it to the Bees
'Ye olde Tradition of telling the Bees, is one that is still done to this day. Tis known that it be the
Bee keepers duty to tell the Bees of any news that needs to be told. Such things like weddings,
death or birth must be told to the Bees.
And, they do say that if the Bees aren’t told of such things, Well, there be trouble indeed. Why,
the Bees would surely take to rest and not produce honey, or they would leave the hive or in the
worst case they would sadly pass away' - Athey Thompson
Quantock Poetry Trail 