Bees of the Antipodes

I water my vegetables, fill bird bath, collect myself from doubt, 

human, flood, drought. I watch two bees working the same pollen-

less flower, fly east, then west, north-south, their sacks empty.

Is it true when the last bee dies, the world will end?

I grow flowers full of pollen – dig and plant  – tend my world.

My brother designs buildings – entire floors fit for machines

to save every email, document, pixel of data, of companies below.

All night whirr, all day rumble of city – heat rises, lights blink, 

energy stirs, bounces like bees from flower to flower

like moths and bats off warm blackened windows.

Heat rises, sweat flows, we flake out at the bar on the bottom 

floor below the whirr, sip ice cold beer, clink our glasses  

mumble the true national mantra for this country; cheers.

We stare at bees going about their business in full display 

between two sheets of Perspex, a living installation, I think

of Anne Nobel’s creation displayed at GOMA years ago.

I fear words diminish and deceive, no longer give nectar,

my species extinct to AI generated semantics as night falls, 

desert sand creeps, husks of Varroa infested bees wither.

Every sonic boom cracks something solid, brings the bee

to a standstill. Antarctica fills our glass of water with icy 

whispers, cheers, cheers, from the bottom of this world.

I plant flowers full of pollen, delete my news feed.