Michael Blackburn

Bee's End

A dozy, dying bee
lands on the arm of my blue shirt.
I flick it away and it falls
to the pale, warm slab at my feet.

How long has it been, bee?
Twenty days? Thirty? Perhaps not that.
Eight hundred kilometers of flight
for half a teaspoon of honey.

Work, work, work,
wearing you out.

Now you're crawling alone
with the last of your pointless pollen,
waiting for the end.

It's nearly over, but not yet.
The ants have seen you.
And here they come, those bastard ants.