Bee's End

Bee's EndA dozy, dying beelands on the arm of my blue shirt.I flick it away and it fallsto the pale, warm slab at my feet.How long has it been, bee?Twenty days? Thirty? Perhaps not that.Eight hundred kilometers of flightfor half a teaspoon of honey.Work, work, work,wearing you out.Now you're crawling alonewith the last of your pointless pollen,waiting for the end.It's nearly over, but not yet.The ants have seen you.And here they come, those bastard ants.