Sick Queen – a poem

Heaven’s firmament looms rainbow oily above,

Skies of shifting adamant change without pause

Or consideration for those that toil hard beneath

All marked as its dominion, sick rose of a sun

Hung thereupon as if by some morbid god’s design.


The hive is stirring, the insects flutter their wings

Within their tunnels of masticated matter, made

For the whole, for Queen and for colony’s hope,

Sleepy little creatures starting to venture out, eyes

Blind to all else bar nectar and a fabled promise of love.


A cascade of dried and furry bodies clamours inside,

Hidden from sight, known by pheromones and instinct

That rules, that governs, the scorched sky of oil above

A stark contrast inviting questions…if only a colony

Knew the right questions to ask, to the sick sun beseech.



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