• Hugh Loxdale


Under the hot August Sun

Ruling a cloudless sky,

Bumble-bees, both big and small,

Fly from their nests

To the Lavender bush

Grown by a south-facing wall.

Here, upward the scented

Spikes they climb,

Clambering madly in the rush,

Or with a low-pitched hum,

Buzzing from flower to flower

As they eagerly gather

Nectar and pollen

Until fully loaded,

Their tiny brains are overcome

With the prime notion

To return home;

An ancient power

Driving them back, then forth -

They know not why —

Beyond the immediacy of their chores;

Round, furry, clockwork creatures

Working every daylight hour

For the common cause.

Never goaded.

A thing they do most willingly,

Without teachers,



Or applause.

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