(116)WHEN I AM HOME
I know what Dalton’s about. I know where he’s gone and for
why. A kiss-brief welcome and then he’s no longer there. That’s the way of him.
Not being rude in that. It’s just that Dalton has a job to do: the bees must be
told that I am home.
(117)FIRST SPRING BEE
Annabelle catches the first spring bee, in a jam jar, and
waits for sleep to come. Then, by moonlight and the cool of night, she takes
the bee, as gentle as gentle can, between pinch of finger and thumb, slips it
in her purse – a charm against spending till summer.
(118)WITHOUT BEES
Whole hives just empty and the homeless bees cast on the
wind and not ever finding their dancing way back. Bee whispers. And wasn’t it
Einstein who said, in an alternative existence perhaps, that if the blessed
bees were all gone then mankind would surely not live past four years.
(119)NOT WASPS
They fascinate me. All that summer-day industry. And nectar
gathered in the early morn, drip by drip, from the suck-kiss-lips of flowers.
And for so long there was no sweeter thing for a man’s bread than honey, or for
his tea. And bees have not the stinging resentment of wasps.
(120)IDEAS
Ideas in my head. Like the buzz-words of bees. All fizz and
spark and wishing to be released. Busy they want to be. On the page. Not a
bee-line they make, but a meandering scribble that will be a story or a poem or
nothing – dead bees on my windowsill.
No comments:
Post a Comment