walked through London's crowds
people said that here I'd find many, many bees,
all busy, busy, bees who were making honey
and all I wanted on my foreigner lips was just a taste.
Many days passed and faded and I saw not a single flower
I looked in every corner.
And I began to suspect
that I had been overcome by a foggy, fearful spell
- until I found, just by chance,
some poetic voices,
the voices of people thought strange,
hovering around where the honey really was.
So from now on, when I look at streets
in the grip of the daily rush hour's grasp
I see the gasping people less as bees,
more perhaps as angry wasps.
© Poets of London