Honey thoughts out loud.

Watching a bee lazily drifting today.

It settles on the tiniest lavender flowers,

I read they're attracted to blue,

though lavender is it's own colour.

Pondering if the power of its scent

has also drawn the bee to it's nectar.

Smells are very compelling;

sometimes more than the look of something.


Wonder where its hive is.

Humming the sound of purposeful activity there.

Is there honeycomb within.

Some people don't like honey.

Its texture and intense sweetness with it's own

particular flavour underlying it,

depending on where the bees have been,

requires open-minded taste,

like wine, or olive oil, or water.



Come to think;

everything we eat or drink has the essence

of it's origin within its taste.

Sometimes its more perceptible,

than others.

Sometimes it takes a lot of practice,

to discern it.

Perhaps the produce from the polylectic bees,

has a more complex, delicate taste,

than the intense flavours gathered,

by the oligoleges.


Whatever sort, however beautiful,

and delicious,

Vegans won't touch it.

Others who think about the way it's made won't either.

Coming from an insect's bottom is possibly

a bit off-putting,


if you let it be.



But the purposeful wandering of the bee,

attracted to flowers,

snuggling into snapdragons,

roaming over the moorland heather,

luxuriating in the masses of red campion

along the hedgerows,

loving the aquilegia;

(if they waken early),

and the buddleias that tower absurdly

high in gardens and out of walls,

gracing wasteland,

alongside the graceful nettles;

butterfly nurseries;

(even they have their flowers)

is a magical thing.



Bees have been revered

even worshipped,


justifiably,


since humans discovered their honey.



Up in the trees,

different types of bees,

drawn to apple and cherry blossom,

alder and blackthorn flowers,

even the hollies,

and the ubiquitous sycamore

hold nectar and pollen,

precious and nutritious

to bees and so, by proxy,

to us.


The honey made from the bees

whose work is to pollinate Manuka trees,

is surely the most prized and expensive honey

of all,

and said to have antibiotic and healing properties.

Slathered on wounds,

it keeps the germs at bay.


Thinking of soldiers,

clutching honey-spread bandages.

Did that ever happen?

Or was honey too fine a thing

to be found on a battlefield.  


We watched the Baka people waiting

for the honey gatherer.

Shinning up the tall straight trunk

of an enormous tree to reach

the bees' nest with his smoking torch.

Such skill and bravery,

to risk one's life,

in pursuit of the prize of honey.

The others, waiting anxiously,

excitedly at the foot of the tree.

My small daughter, watching

the film with me, gasping

as some bees, not made sleepy

by the smoke,  bombard the gatherer,

who calmly wafts at them with the torch.



How she wanted to live like them.

Me too. Fishing and cultivating plantains,

and singing and waiting for the honey.

Just once a year.

Gorging on the comb.

Beautiful golden treat.



The wealth of bees,

their gathered gold,

how we steal it,

to rectify our ills.

Heal our souls even.

Maybe they make it especially for us.

A body's heart's ease,

for time everlasting.