Sean Borodale
17TH JULY: KILLING DRONES
17TH JULY: KILLING DRONES
Today cut comb with drone cells from the lower frame.
Too many drones,
one tenth of all here this month;
they eat the stores.
Capped brood in ancient pots.
(Suspect no queen present,
she with clipped wings, gone.)
Respect the unborn dead.
Hatched heads waggle, they are trapped;
they understand
the pageant of the mating flight will come.
And yet not born yet, these fated.
Two queen cells ripen fat with burden;
evolve same plan.
(Winding sound increased.)
Which queen will wake first?
This game we hold and do not possess but use.
This farm is cities;
good health;
wing sheen like threshold stones.
Kneel eyes;
note, no graffiti of foul brood or mould;
comb dark with capped brood is pixels.
Wings good, not ragged; the honey clear,
will not take yet.
Took one board of comb with hatching drones;
heads chewing out their caps.
Threw the buoyant, tarry, dark wax into the river.
Barge of ballast: heads a trout may seize.
Slow flows, away it goes,
twelve-headed river-hearse of the emergent.
No flame for them.
