Sean Borodale

I’d say it’s toiling air, high up here;

steep with bees, and the beacon sun

burns

overlapping light, close to sundown.

Come to collect bees, our hive in parts.

Compound of fencing, stands of nucleus hives.

(Nuc,

new word.)

He just wears a veil, this farmer, no gloves

and lifts open a dribbly wax-clogged

blackwood box.

We in our whites mute with held breath.

Hello bees.

Drops four frames into our silence.

The air is like mica

ancient with thin flecks;

distance viewed through a filter of thousands.

I am observed.

Each box has the pulsar of its source. Porous with eyes

we wait in the spinning sun. The light is Medusa,

sugar of frayed threads; a mesh, a warp-field, all

the skin of our heads.

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