Listening to the Bees

Sunday afternoon: I am sitting in my garden, the deckchair placed close to the rosemary bush, the sun high in the sky above the chimney pots making a silhouette of the house on the grass, while a small, black beetle scurries across the smooth, white, metal frame of my seat.  I close my eyes, feeling the warmth of the hot sun full on my face.  Listening to the bees.

There is birdsong behind me, from the trees bordering the graveyard, and the occasional creak of the fence when the wind blows.  There is the muted sound of voices from behind the window of my neighbours’ and the occasional shrill cry of an excited child.  From a garden, two doors down, a radio is playing quietly with only one topic of news.  While I am listening to the bees.

Further off, beyond my garden, beyond the graveyard, beyond the road, it is just possible to hear the near-constant sound of sirens, fast-moving ambulances, and of helicopters whirring; a state of emergency at the hospital that I don’t want to contemplate.

The government say that I am doing my bit, but I don’t feel like I am doing my bit.  But what can I do?  So, instead, I remain motionless, feeling the hot sun on my face, a useless eater, listening to all the busy bees.

© Fergus Longfellow

Fergus in garden

Fergus Longfellow does nothing, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

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