August, a woozy, pollinated afternoon,

heat on the hills like a shawl. Black

stones of the village pile up, black

on black, burnt in the air's oven.

Deep in the valley the wood hugs turns

of enfolded land, a seep of dark water

she pulls towards like a blind thing,

the air heavy as sleep where mill ruins

are a green temple. Lost now, the path

peters out to a rabbit-run and a shortcut

becomes a deadfall into a trill of menace,

the first sting, the next and then a host,

sting after sting in her hair, her mouth.

She can only crawl backwards uphill,

a headful of vibrating barrettes

tiny, spent jewels she shakes out,

hands beating the air like a claxon,

heart clapping to disperse the poison.