The wasp nest

Poem by Steve Day

I am your mother; you were torn from me
at birth and at that bloody moment the fear
of losing you fluttered through my memory
like wasp-wings building their future.

My dear son, our people, the generation
before my generation… your grandparents
and their peers, you know them well
even though they were slaughtered
in smoke and ashes, millions,
like the wasp nest in the straw barn roof.

And the kristallnacht pogroms that marked
our kin with stars and fires has burnt our beliefs.
Made it hard for you and I to part miracles from murder.
Brutalised us, cut out our kind hearts;
we seek revenge on every wasp nest in the straw barn roof.
And when these creatures plague, stinging us because
they want their share of that old barn, the only response
we can give is to cover them in smoke and ashes,
millions, made into martyrdom, eradicated
because they sought the same straw shelter as our own.

Oh, we are a people
who have fought many battles.
Even the warrior Absalom was named father of peace.
My dear son, I would ask you to stop this carnage
and leave the wasp nest in the straw barn,
allow them space to gather nectar and pollinate.
Yes, I’d plead with you to do so but there is no
nectar in your reverie of smoke and ash,
just the stink of gas canisters and I am sick of it.

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Comments

Thank you for the poem.
I found it very powerful.

By p.nicholas760@btinternet.com on 4th January 2024 - 19:51

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