Wasps Poem by Anne Brooke

Like the slow trickle of water

or the crumple of paper in the hand

the wasps take up residence under the roof

as they did last summer.

At first we do not hear them;

they are cunning as wolves,

accustomed to slipping ghosted

through the splintered cracks of solid wood and tile

to build their undulating nest

away from the innocent eyes of our everyday life.



For when the irregular crackle and hiss

of spiky tapping slips into our senses

it could so easily be

the dripping of rain along the gutter

steaming in sunlight

or the steady shifting of a house dying as it stands

which numbs our every thought

until we come almost to accept the thing we fear most.



And as in painstaking rhythm

they begin to mark what they count as theirs,

the slow stripe of possession,

stings golden with vengeance

for the many small deaths gone before,

then at last we hear them

as they ease through the folded swathe of conscience,

crawling just there under the skin

and filling our tormented ears

with hazy dreams of flight.