“Gran!” I shouted limping as quickly as quick could be.
”I stepped on one again! It sat on a daisy. The bee.”
I added as means of explanation. As if the daisy would bring me salvation!
”How many times have I told you not to run barefoot?”
She scolds. I shrug.
How am I supposed to quantify that?

A twang, it stang—again—and then the tweezers done their job.
Granddad grinned and gently chinned the rebellious child barefoot.

Gran cut an onion in half, to pull out the poisonous puss.
I had to sit still for a while with vegetable fixed to my foot.
And I made faces and complained a bit about how sore it all was.
While feeling guilty for the demise—again—of a small furry buzz.
“Well child if you would listen.” Gran sighed and paused.
No use to child or beast after harm caused.

An hour later.

Sweet cherry plumes—not feathered, wafted with gentle intoxication.
Beckoning the rebellious child into calm abdication.
Permission to enter the Queendom; was granted;
By omission of artificial scents and execution of slow movements.
He was covered from head to toe in white.
The gauze of the beekeeper’s hat rolled up,
Lest the wooden pipe would set it on fire.

”Na, Schnuck?” He said out of the corner of his mouth.
”All better?”

I nod, I smile, my eyes transfixed on the buzzing clanship.
Pop’s movements all deliberation, like a slow-motion movie strip.
My big strong hot headed mother’s father became Zen master, of the Queendom.
Hypnotised drones bumbling about him, just as enchanted as I am.

We all knew somehow, somewhere, we would always be safe there,
In the beekeeping hut.
Arms which each could hold a 100kg sack moving in fluid serenity.
Subdued by cherry plumes—not feathered, and meditative movement.
So I fall into enchanted choreography: cat’s paw and master and drones.