by Sarah Adams, UK
It's not about the honey It's not about picnics panic free. It's about the missing Black gold striped Warmth in the grieving air. The sun messenger silenced And a suggestion of wings- Like violin strings Buzzing and humming and whirring. Who would have thought A sunbeam and soot coloured Mini anti-gravity machine, A furry little flying bear! Would leave the air so empty... The land will miss them, The gold dusted stamens Will wait and grieve, Wither and die, childless. Our bellies will miss them. And our rainbow plate Will become dull brown and ash grey, In mourning.