memoirs, art and fragments by Thomas Milner

One of the good things about living in this locale is the honey; I just love honey (in any language – medevý, honig, miel, mossi, miele, mel, med, honung and bal). I have just purchased my liter-jar fix for a modest five euros from a local supplier and have the heavy glass jar of dark gold unctuous nectar in front of me.

I reckon that a small spoonful of honey spread on my bread-roll in the morning for breakfast is a real sweet way to start the day. Honey is the smell of the honeysuckle releasing its full fragrance on an evening in late spring transmuted into pure taste … heavenly.

The dripping honeycombs of my childhood on the farm, why are they mere shadows on my memory?

Why is the word syrup so scarcely used these days?

What do you think, Honey?


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