A hot afternoon and tiredness has him
turning to the garden for fresh air
where he spills coffee and goes to swear – and swears
because she is, of course, in bed
and not about to come downstairs.
Beyond the oak, in full sun the fields
of maize grow rainbows as the tractors spray.
Beneath her curtained window, in their plot,
tended by his hands these days,
a bee is abandoning itself on his abandoned spade.
From the corner of his eye, he sees her
raise her claw as if to wave.
How long now? He blows away the steam and sips.
The struggling buzz of the bedside bell.
It no longer seems like myth; that those
who devote their lives to one another
like bee to blossom, blossom fruit,
will take their leave in the same hour.