On the way to the glass disposal container round the corner, with some empty wine bottles (yes I drink a lot), I passed a very sleepy, or possibly dying, bumblebee. It was motionless there on the ground, and covered with tiny raindrops. Fortunately no child had discovered it, so I was able to save it from being playfully squashed. I nudged it on to the back of a tram ticket, which I found distasteful, as it overturned and wriggled big black legs (like those of a swift house spider). But I persevered and gently tipped the groggy little thing amongst some bushes that grow alongside the street. I suppose it will be eaten………… Oh well, I did what I could.
Since I am nearing the end of my days I seem to have developed a little more reverence for life. I hate for example the way people set house plants out by the rubbish. Are they bored with them? The cactii which live so happily in my front window – it gets the afternoon sun – are growing like crazy and they are my friends. I wouldn’t dream of dumping them out by the rubbish. Now there is an orchid on the windowsill as well. It is currently budding, having been quiet for a long time. It was given to me by a horrible person – a “Judas of character” – and I really didn’t want to keep it. But the orchid is not to blame. No, in this instance, I am to blame, for having such a poor choice when it comes to friends. That person has disappeared now and all that is left of him is a few emails and the orchid……heh-heh. Perhaps that’s all that will be left of me when I am gone. Hahaha.
I have decided, by the way, to get a cat (as I’m talking of critters)…………
Your piece seems fine – if a trifle glum. Your prose poem on a dying bee reminds me of a typical piece of Hamish useless fact-rummaging. Bees love the nectar of the familiar lime tree (or linden in the US). One popular variety, however, the Silver pendant lime (Tilia petiolaris) produces its flowers later in the season (summer) and has a very strong, beautiful scent, which we humans appreciate – but proves deliciously narcotic to bees, many of whom can be seen “drunk” or knocked out at the base of that tree in summer, driven to sweet unconsciousness by the delicious fumes they have imbibed. Some of the bees recover and sober up – but others never wake up again….
Are you really going to get a cat? Who’ll look after puss when you’re on your hols?