AFTER THE BEES

Gold is falling on the honey standard;
truck-loads of bullion are shipped
from Fort Knox and replaced
by fleece-wrapped jars of liquid amber
(the fabled scents of clover, lavender
jasmine, lost flowers of the past, unreal
as unicorns and dragons, extinct as
butterflies.) The price of vintage
cotton T shirts soars, rarer now
than diamonds; old people tell tales
of crisply laundered cotton sheets
sailing on washing lines, the mythical
coolness of linen, the smell of a fresh
pillow case. Rumours fly of the super-rich
with secret high-walled fields of crops
pollinated by hand: tomatoes, peaches,
mulberry leaves for silk worms,
kept alive by squirrel brushes, slaves
and endless patience. But even they
cannot make honey