The Bees

Twenty-four, an education
and a hundred grand owed

snails, the loans we once
shifted were our homes.

Now we plug in, pedal
rented lives, no hands

on the wheel. Look
at Virgil’s bees, each knows

its place in the big society.
They may drone instead

of singing, no matter –
you want to learn

something useful
how glows the work

how sweet the honey
we make but will not eat

a hoard of golden jars
dust-furred, secret

passed from kin to kin
those ample pantries

in leafy boroughs;
we'll never own, taste

the fruits of our labours.
What's borrowed, what thieved?

@ianjmclachlan