She speaks to the postman frequently,
gives him small jars of cloudy honey at Christmas
and invites him in on rainy days.

Her husband doesn’t mind and neither
does the postman; he appreciates
the warmth, the company.

The couple has a modest bee colony;
two deep hives made from a small chest
of brightly coloured drawers. It is clear
they are not beekeepers by trade.

We are infertile, she tells the postman
over tea.

The bees help us heal, she says with a thin-
lipped smile, while her husband nods slowly,
staring into his mug.

They say it’s going to be a bad winter this year,
harsh and snowy with lots of ice,
the postman responds.

Yes, the husband says, his voice aimed steadily
towards the table. We may not have any more
honey for you this Christmas.

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