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Sue Rose

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Hornet's Nest

All last evening,
             a hail of hornets.
The night was warm,
             too close
for closed doors.
             We sweated
it out as they pattered
             against the panes,
winnowed their way in
             through holes, a window
ajar upstairs, the slice of light
             between backdoor and step,
heading for candle flames
             like little zeppelins.

Today, he came,
             our white hero
with ladders and spray guns.
             They might be protected
in Germany, he tells us,
              but not in the Limousin—
he’s free to exterminate
              the entire seething
colony, impervious
              to the blasted insects sniping
at his helmet. Driven out.
             Finished off by fumes.

By evening, he’s done.
             He hefts his bucket
of spoil— hexagonal chambers
             squirming with white grubs—
and shoves it into the van.
             Choice pickings for the hens,
he says, or bound for the fire.
             Tonight, we can enjoy
our candled dinner under the fig,
             undisturbed.
In the distance, thunder breaks
             and lightning flares
against the darkened stars
             over Brive, Tulle, Oradour.

Page(s) 30-31

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