Harriet, the honeybee.

I’m sitting here surveying the scene on the deck of our cottage beside the river. I’ve finished my cryptic crossword, and now I’m just watching tiny ripples appear now and again where fish are swimming to the surface. Swallows chase one another just above the water, and overhead, gulls glide the currents. All around, heat insects throb with the sun. A little skink appears, runs along the decking, and then disappears down a crack. Charlie, the dog, lying under the table, takes no notice of the lizard. He’s more interested in movements on the lavender bush in a pot nearby. It’s a honeybee. He watches as she goes from one flower to the next, nuzzling each bloom in turn. Now fully laden, she returns home. But she’ll be back. I’ve seen her before, working away all by herself. A poem of no consequence pops into my head:

Harriet is a honeybee.

She buzzes round the flowers.

She likes her job enormously

And works for hours and hours.

She gathers pollen by the sack

(The busiest bee alive!)

and takes her booty back

for process at the Hive.

Sitting on the deck today,

I see her on the lavender,

All alone, she toils away -

No-one else is helping her.

“Aren’t you sad?” I have to ask,

“Working all alone?”

“Not when busy with my task.

I’d hate to be a drone!”