Bugloss
T Tom Billsborough
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Bees spiral up the bugloss staves,
On the blue mauve bells
Practise their alchemy.
Whether by choice or chance,
They spiral upwards, always upwards,
In a rousing anthem.
And, in my drone's hive,
Where thoughts buzz like chancers
At a dance,
A song of pure gold swells to the spiral
Influx of colours and old dreams.
But not mine. I am witness only
And the watcher of spiralling bees,
Here to marvel at a finer female art.
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