As I was wandering along my road, my quaint English avenue lined with houses and homes in a patchwork of era and design, I slowly trailed past a row of lavender plantations. Small but bristling, with plumes of floral splendour, their tiny purple flowers stretched high and wide, thin tongue like leaves sprayed from beneath them, in a casual reverse crowning in an ever shifting ceremony of sovereignty. It had been raining, a heavy film of thick weather lined everything in a damp and reflective cold which clung and sublimed slowly into the already near saturated air. Drops of water clung to the plants in glistening decorative nodules of tension and light, my face shimmering in the tones of silvery mist that reflected in their domes. I looked closer and, once I had adjusted to look at the strange silhouettes that adorned the branches of purple herbs like toffees, I noticed that a couple dozen plump sodden bumblebees clung motionless to the green and moist stems, some had their faces buried in the flowers, supping from the cup that over flowed and drowned them, I saw the lines of death in the lavender and I felt my heart turn to stone. There was little do be done about the loss of insect life, and I saw how their last moments were spent labouring in their chosen way, finding the best pollens and nectars, smothering themselves in aroma and colour, dancing to each other and when the heavens opened, they simply went inside. Already in the bliss, the bees, rather than leave and find a shelter to be safe they were taken by the flash flood in the storm, choosing to remain at their seat, gorging on the sweet nectar, perhaps for young, now swept away in the flow of temporary rivers and ravines in the grass. Perhaps they were not totally passed, and although cold and inanimate will dessicate and dry, become able to fly, but as they sit, like fruits on the branch, it is simply a matter of time before something finds themselves a prickly morsel. I saw one, and it was moving, it seemed in pain, everything was slow and it failed to make contact with the leg it attempted to cling with, stuck in a precarious position with only half of its body clinging on to the sweet and aromatic flower stem, I wondered if it would make it. As I wandered past, I spared a thought for them, but I had a bus to catch.
Rowan Blair Colver
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