Alison Wells Author

Pure honey on my breakfast table, the honeycomb still visible, the dark triumphant golden of the hexagonal walls, the structure that seems to breathe, to concertina, something that you could walk through. But I don’t walk through, I take the castle on my spoon it passes across my lips and tongue, down my throat, coating it with its rich benediction. I get the taste of luscious, luxuriant gold and its brown undertow, a hint of delicious sin.