Thinking that a poet should look
(like God)
not just on the outward appearance, but
on the heart,
I plucked one golden, soft, defenceless
bloom
and sniffed.
Liking the mead-sweet fragrance
I inhaled more deeply
like a connoisseur of fine wines
searching for words to describe the
honey bouquet:
words that would shine bright and
glossy as petals.
Then I sneezed
and sneezed
and sneezed again.
Not gentle, lady-like sneezes (I never
could)
but violent explosions
each pollen speck a bomb
planted inside my skull
shaking my brains
reddening my nose
flooding my eyes
turning my sinuses thick and heavy.
I picture my gravestone:
Died 11th April
Killed by a Coltsfoot.
My last thought:
‘Do bees sneeze?’
Barbara Mearns
