Philip Gross
A Cult of Bees
Today she rises and she dresses
every one of us is her attendant in the robing room –
drone, worker, even the queen.
Every drop squeezed from our bodies, wax and honey,
is to fashion her a body,
a shape in this world, and it glows, as if she was the one
true candle, of which all
your candles are the stray reflections, very far and small.
Today she rises and will be robed
in our wings, spun pearl, which we shed for her gladly
Strew them at her feet like petals.
We lay out our bodies, scattered on the orchard floor,
swept out of doors of the hive.
We are her feelers, glands and limbs. We have no word
for what we, each by each,
might be, as ready for the journey now she rises,
and we clothe her with ourselves.
She is nothing, and all that we are: the ungraspable pattern
in the live brocade of swarming,
the shapes that we trace in the air, always threading our amber
beads on their string. She
is… But ask your candle, in its whispering under the breath
of the flame. She cares
For everything, and cares for nothing. She is not for you.
every one of us is her attendant in the robing room –
drone, worker, even the queen.
Every drop squeezed from our bodies, wax and honey,
is to fashion her a body,
a shape in this world, and it glows, as if she was the one
true candle, of which all
your candles are the stray reflections, very far and small.
Today she rises and will be robed
in our wings, spun pearl, which we shed for her gladly
Strew them at her feet like petals.
We lay out our bodies, scattered on the orchard floor,
swept out of doors of the hive.
We are her feelers, glands and limbs. We have no word
for what we, each by each,
might be, as ready for the journey now she rises,
and we clothe her with ourselves.
She is nothing, and all that we are: the ungraspable pattern
in the live brocade of swarming,
the shapes that we trace in the air, always threading our amber
beads on their string. She
is… But ask your candle, in its whispering under the breath
of the flame. She cares
For everything, and cares for nothing. She is not for you.
Philip Gross is Professor of Creative Writing at Glamorgan University. He has written several books of poetry, and a wide range of novels for young people. His most recent poetry collection, The Egg of Zero, was published by Bloodaxe Books in February 2006. He has also recently published The Abstract Garden, a collaboration with engraver Peter Reddick.
Page(s) 58
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