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.