Stung

( following poem in response to actual event yesterday)

Autumn morning, playing in garden
taking time out ,mooching about,
cutting down brambles, trimming the lawn.
In the undergrowth, resting in fallen fruit,
a lone wasp waited, in flight carried poison,
in pursuit, heading in my direction,
released a direct hit above my eye,
stuck its stinger beneath my skin.
Now I sit, swollen and throbbing,
mother nature, I've already thanked
for leaving me, with this nasty surprise,
at least I have a few remedies stored
some love and affection, some healing balms
the wasp simply flew off, somewhere else 
to face the  imminent threat of death.