Wild Bees

Often in summer, on a tarred bridge plank standing, Or downstream between willows, a safe Ophelia drifting In a rented boat — I had seen them come and go, Those wild bees swift as tigers, their gauze wings a-glitter In passionless industry, clustering black at the crevice Of a rotten cabbage tree, where their hive was hidden low. But never strolled too near. Till one half-cloudy evening Of ripe January, my friends and I Came, gloved and masked to the eyes like plundering desperadoes, To smoke them out. Quiet beside the stagnant river We trod wet grasses down, hearing the crickets chitter And waiting for light to drain from the wounded sky. Before we reached the hive their sentries saw us And sprang invisible through the darkening air, Stabbed, and died in stinging. The hive woke. Poisonous fuming Of sulphur filled the hollow trunk, and crawling Blue flame sputtered — yet still their suicidal Live raiders dived and clung to our hands and hair. O it was Carthage under the Roman torches, Or loud with flames and falling timber, Troy! A job well botched. Half of the honey melted And half the rest young grubs. Through earth-black smouldering ashes And maimed bees groaning, we drew out our plunder. Little enough their gold, and slight our joy. Fallen then the city of instinctive wisdom. Tragedy is written distinct and small: A hive burned on a cool night in summer. But loss is a precious stone to me, a nectar Distilled in time, preaching the truth of winter To the fallen heart that does not cease to fall.