Bees

A poem I've been working on . . .

Bees arrive, depart; hoverflies, too. Today

this is such a busy corner of my garden.

I watch them across the tangle of raspberry canes,

hard at work in the dappled sun,

dusting themselves with pollen:

a necessary part of the process

of forming life from life, forming also

fruit for the jar or table.

Spring has made a cold and clammy start this year,

leaving my roses locked in the bud,

while the swallows have missed by a week

their due arrival.

I am yet to hear the cuckoo -

last year he was all around.

Be glad of this day, then,

of its sunshine and unexpected warmth;

they say there’ll be rain yet to come,

spilling from strengthening and chilly north-westerlies.

Be glad too that we still have the bees,

honey, bumble, carpenter, mason.

The steady insect hum as I sit in this easy shade

supplies a chanter-note for the songs of spring, assurance that

the transfer of pollen still continues,

is under way. But remember: like the weather,

all is not as settled and sure as it can seem to be

on a day like this; we need so much that chanter-note,

that soft, assuring drone. Be glad,

but be watchful, take care; we need the bees.