Poetry by Willie Smith
In a binocular field,
thick as spines in a blackberry thicket,
the Beehive sparkles with stars.
This mere, to the naked eye, hazy smear
the Greeks dub The Manger.
The lone stars on either side stand for the donkeys
Dionysos and Silenus into battle ride. Tonight,
the cluster in Cancer’s Breast
other drama metastasizes.
Two millenia of people dying, stars wheeling,
words shape-shifting through ever-birthing minds.
These very bees – suns six hundred lightyears off –
will come to tell, in mangled Greek or ancient English,
stories askew from how we alive tonight,
standing under the hive, understand the light.