in which sun soaks

the earth dry, for days

it seems birds have fled the feasting sun

leaving flickerings of cabbage moth and fly

to dart from leaf to flower to shade

as bees seek reprieve in mossy banks

far from city life. People too disperse

indoors, shuttered down to stillness

and a book. Only the council

sends it workers out to mow

some verges with nothing

left to grow though

mine survives…

 

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in which a garden moves

and shifts in lightness, all leaves

criss-crossing like a zigzag of flare

sifting through bee hop and petal

flight. Circles of rain evaporate,

a waterfall of canna stripes

coloured with the confetti

of a flowering palm. Lorikeet

wings hover like an aerial

weather- vane spinning with fruit

 

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Dusk droop

A last bee droops in the dusk- heat hanging around

long after the swarm has gone. Salvias give up

vigour shrugging insect-chirp away in this

lacklustre air. Only lorikeets and miners sway

to an umbrella-fruit gig indifferent to the comical

sweaty shape buzzing around in meadowpatch.

 

 

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a reed bee, perhaps

a bee furrows in the newly pruned lantana

fossil-still as if on guard for predators,

like me with my shears. I drape a hoya

over the bare branch and let it drop,

a shade cover for such a stoic silent

one who sticks close to its nest of

reeds. Though tiny, statuesque,

chiselled from orange black bark.

 

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The Beehive

There’s a hint of a beehive

in the air

all that scurrying about

as people throng outdoors

like insects uncertain of their hives.

 

I’m walking away from weasel

words, bureau-speak

joining the office nomads

taking the road to nowhere

 

Honey, hang up your briefcase

and throw off your shoes

time to buzz off

 

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