Honey at the Last Platform

At the abandoned station, hives hum under the timetable, glass roof stitched with ivy and last winter's dust. Sun spills in coins across the rails, and every bee spends them on clover-scented air.

Platforms once called departures now hold weather, a slow green rain of fern through cracked concrete. Wagons sleep in rust-red silence, their windows keeping small bright planets of pollen.

When I lift a frame, the comb glows like amber organ music, hexagons ringing with the labor of summer. My gloves smell of smoke and wild thyme; the queen moves through her court like a dark syllable.

By dusk, honey settles in jars the color of old brass lamps. Swifts turn above the clock that no longer answers. I carry sweetness home in both hands, as if time itself could be uncapped and poured.