The bees are whispering
with the stamen, their shared secret language of love
predating the Pre-Raphaelites, Elgar’s Nimrod,
Great Pyramid of Giza, Ugg clubbing fox’s head
in the cave, the bees are whispering violence
at the noisy miners stalking the corners
talking smack What you lookin at, but
that streetwise fruitless pumpkin vine keeps crawling
its spread over the deadly nightshades, whispering
It’s the sub-tropics, if you like the beach vistas
you must love the weeds blistering, popping
through lomandra brushes, lemongrass
competing for airtime, lime light, gasping in whispers
What are we, a communion? Are we working together
for greater good, or fighting for sole survival?
Is this chorus, or soapbox Sunday in Hyde Park,
South African proteas shouting over whispering
Grevillea ‘Honey Gem’ and the quiet blue-tongues
tucked away, avoiding Murwillumbah’s tomcats,
lamenting that the world is much busier now,
the garden so busy, full of deafening whispers
though the bees always rise, dip, drink sweet water.
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