A Little Nasty Bee

A little nasty bee flew past the yellow hill – fast as running deer hunting a Rose tree. Dew drops from her sting – trembled the butterflies, wings flapping fretfully – scorn was in the air tonight. “Ah, rose, do you whimper? So lonely and beautiful – waiting for a hand bypassing your thorns? The wind took your aroma far – the hive where I live is nearby and like an armored knight they will swarm undaunted. I could settle and swing - the Jasmine in the valley are blossoming too early - my last spring, honey. Now, I must bid farewell – fear not, your Ripper is coming, eager and tender – loving you much so.” And then went the bee leaving the frail rose behind – watched by an grey raven flying past the moonlight.