At the first brief lull
in terrible weather
bees are back, each
entering headfirst
the upside-down open
nectar-heavy skirts
of wet fuchsia flowers
and seeming to stay
quite still in that inner
laden space, only the
smallest shudder
of the two together
when the bee tongue
unrolls and runs like
a tiny red carpet into
the heart of what is
no mystery but the
very vanishing point
and live center of
the flower's instant and
irrevocable unfolding,
then stillness again
while this exchange
(layer after layer of
dusty goodness lipped,
given) is taking place -
the flower flushed and
swelling a little,
the bee gently but
hungrily clutching.
- Eamon Grennan
