WHERE THE BEE

June in this garden,
Where rose petals confetti a patchy lawn;
The evening breeze susurrates in branches
After the sun has sunk beyond rooftops.

I become aware of another, fainter sound
And find, flailing against the glass,
A huge bee, its gold faded, in our conservatory.

Despite open doors and windows,
It seems to be trapped;
Buzzing feebly, it flies time and again
Into the same pane.

I think he must be old
And losing his way through life;
The blooms of yesterday have dimmed
And now he battens blindly
On to the dried flowers in a vase on the sill
Where he seems to suck and then become still.

Moved by some vague fellow-feeling,
I gently and gingerly take up the bee
And release him into the trees
Where he falls and crawls
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

The breeze turns cold and plaintive,
And I turn back now
Into the house where we live.


(2000)

I don’t know why but, for some reason, bees seem to lose their navigation-system when they fly into our conservatory. Every summer, it happens so often that Lise bought a little fishing net on a stick, the sort kids have, and we use it to rescue and release the bees back out into the garden.

The title comes from ‘The Tempest’ by Shakespeare. It’s Ariel’s song of freedom:-

‘Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie:
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.’