He’d dug all morning up by the hive,
stood stooped with ache, in time
to watch bees rob rose-heads.
Evening drones through the green
where his head nods, drops,
beating time with the bee and the
rose
and the uniform day dulling to dusk.
Under the weight of the last fumbler,
shed petals, limp over making time,
desert their show when seed
withdraws intact to the hip.
