Spring is sprung

the grass is ris

I wonder where the birdies is.

The bird is on the wing

but that's absurd

for I have heard

the wing is on the bird.

The wing is also on the bee and the little women are out as soon they feel the sun's warmth hit their cosy hives.

Mention bee-keeping in a civilised gathering and a susurration of approval moves through the room. I've never been quite sure what the approval is but I don't challenge it. Approval in any form is welcome even if it's undeserved.

Furry little brown bodies, unconscious of their human exploitation, they are, for me, heimlich. It is wood, wax, sun, flowers, fecundity. Their food is natural; their industry too. It is clean warmth and dryness. They need clean water to drink and they need to sleep at night. Imagine the quietness of sleeping bees. Do you suppose they snore, just a little? Shall I creep out with a stethoscope to listen in? Maybe when I have a little one with me again.

These creatures have been minding their business for tens of thousands of years.

Early example trawled from t'internet

this morning is 10,000 years ago from

the Matopo Hills of Zimbabwe.

And we've been stealing their industry ever

since.

To host these little ones at the the bottom of the garden is a privilege but its heritage is far more practical than our parvenu middle-class dabbling. Just one generation ago, honey bought a baby's pram. Now it buys approval and the pleasure of giving it to folk we love.

For me it serves an ideal metaphor for everything I want for my loved ones: goodness, sweetness and health. I don't think I could ever sell it, there's more sweetness to be gained from giving it.