Bog Myrtle & Peat

Wasps have come like a dark, devouring force.

I gather windblown apples for the pigs, but every second skin is hollow. Sweet, puffy flesh has been replaced with furious stingers; they come for me with expressions of antsy fury. It’s a game of russian roulette in the sticky grass – I reach for the fruit and wince because the next apple could be my last.

And they gnaw at the vegetables in the garden; my carrot tops have been scooped away and emptied; my beetroots are sore and sorry. The brambles are being punctured and shot full of holes; no hope for the currants in the hedge.

I began to butcher a deer in the yard and found that wasps were peeling the meat from the bones faster than I could take it for myself. It seems like there is no part of these August days which is not ripe for plundering.

I have not yet been stung, but it’s in the post.