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Wasp's Nest

written by: Polly Oliver



The thickened fury of their row still clung
in patches to the skirts of the house;
Scorch-smelling clumps that led it to slump
and sag between spruce, clean-gabled neighbours.
The afternoon hummed with heat. Her head buzzed
with the residue of frustrated tears:
The sting at the tail end of love.
Clustering clouds closed the blue-arcing window
to space, and under the pressure-cooker sky
the buzzing grew. Its source no longer inside
her skull but pestering round the back door.
And helicoptering low to the leathered mouth
of a cobwebby, season-weathered boot-
her obscene abdomen a tiger-striped teardrop
dripping pheromones- the queen could be seen!
Primed by Nature’s alarm colour-scheme,
the yellow and black stung her out of ennui
into a warrior- like domesticity.
Too close to the house! They must be put out!
Wide-eyed guard at the door to their den,
she watched as he threw the shabby old shoe
with its small, balled colony
to the distant margins of the garden.
For a time a few workers who missed the eviction
searched confusedly the vicinity of home;
disorientated by disaster unwitnessed.
Permanently adrift from the vanished.
They watched the display of displacement play out
In the curl-stomached silence of the culpable.
And the age-trodden boot lay for weeks in the weeds
With its papery clutch of tiny empty rooms.

Polly Oliver

Polly Oliver

JAN/FEB 2017 AUTHOR OF THE MONTH at Spillwords.com
A mother of two boys, scribbling from the Western coasts of the UK, mainly poetry, but whatever comes out really. Former journalist and PR professional, the first whispers of middle age and declining eyesight made having a real go at 'real writing' a little more urgent. A Cornish native, I made my home in South West Wales so the sound of the sea sighs through my work every now and then. Lover of nature, yoga, boutique coffee shops and occasional (and very dreadful) surfer.
Polly Oliver

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