Dead bees curl on fabric rose, drunk on wild nectar of rain-soaked blooms. Last of the tea overdose. Deepening green remoteness shot through with dying gold rays. Tongue laden with delicious irrelevancies, pages brim with aftertastes. Air fills with avian voices exchanging weather predictions. Will it rain again tonight? yes? no? yes? yes? A grey-blue day of abstract-verses concludes.
A wild rose unfurls.