Portrait of the Bees in Tain

The ranks of snoring sisters, sleeping in

Their hives, vibrating in the dark, lit by

The black and yellow of their stings, so thin

Fallen with the winter rhythm, no fly.

They dream of summer, memories of moss

First steps of a waggle dance forgotten,

How they fold with the dying sun in loss,

Fold down in sleep, soft wings packed away then.

Still the queen is ruminating in stripes,

Plotting her schemes, the rising of the spring

Even in sleep, her vibrant colours’ pipes

Move up and down as her slow thoughts take wing.

When the green song of spring slowly starts up

They’ll rise to its call, bear the buttercup.