Pauline Flynn, Visual Artist/Poet

Missing

​

Droves of people walk the perimeter

scouring the scutch grass for a trace,

 

their whispered voices tune to the hum of bees

that streams like motes of dust in the fragrant air

 

and shadows fall from ancient oak and beech,

standing sentinel in full regalia.

 

The field of rapeseed has swallowed her like a grave

its spread of yellow folding her in its clutch.