A swirl of half-chewed hay, and on it clings
one drowning bee, whose struggle seems in vain;
a poor bedraggled thing with sodden wings,
but how she fights for life as her strength wanes.
For pity's sake I take a length of wood
and lift her from the trough, onto the side,
where, in the sun, it seems perhaps she could
revive. She washes while her wings are dried.
Her jointed legs brush moisture from her head,
meticulous, and with exacting care.
She tries her wings; a sudden vibrant spread
of gossamer beats hard upon the air,
in drunken flight, as is my heart, set free
as home I trudge - to honey for my tea.
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