Wasp’s Nest
I wanted to be a goat when I was a child. Agile and cloven-
hooved. My days were spent poking cowpats with a stick,
sending clouds of bluebottles into the hot sky as the hay
meadows chirped with crickets and grasshoppers. One
evening there was an empty wasp’s nest in Nana Clarke’s
attic. Paper whorls, like a handmade balloon. I went and
sat with it, amongst trunks of musty linen and love letters,
the regrets and hopes of her thrifty, wartime generation.
I’d always thought of Nana as a good witch, full of herbal
remedies and canny wisdom. Neighbours had her down as a
complete and utter crackpot. What would she have made
of Brexit, Long Covid, Climate Catastrophe? Would these
words have been barbs in her throat, as she pursed her lips
and searched for marshmallow and lemon verbena? Perhaps
the wasps were still swarming out there, looking for a
place to shelter. I listen for the thrumming of wings, the
ragged edges of our lives.