Living in the Shade of Nothing Solid by Jeff Guess

Living in the Shade of Nothing Solid

To the old house at the end of the street
with more history in its walls than bricks:
not every year, but most, the bees would come back.
Only a few at first, to the small study-room
at the end of the long passage
and bump against the glass.
It was always at the same time; probably same day
although we never checked.
And occasionally if the window was left ajar -
before the late spring swung to summer
they would come in, and swarm on walls; furniture;
anything - looking for a hive.
And each time someone would come with boxes,
gadgets and gear and take them away.
But this year it was an old man
who walked with two sticks and didn't speak much
who brought nothing.
Asked to be shut in with them alone,
and listen to their song. Half an hour later,
he told us if we didn't want them back,
they'd have to be destroyed.
'Bees have the longest recall - and the best,
they keep coming back here - looking for their tree.'
Cut down probably a hundred years ago, but
roots still deep in their collective conscious dance;
buzzed messages of shape, type and height;
the inherited mind-maps of memory
He poisoned the swarm and they have not returned.
And with them, the tree we never knew was there -

that died the same day,
we stopped the bees believing in it.

Villanelle
after the painting THE POTTER'S WIFE, HORSE AND TRAP
by Arthur Boyd, 1969-70

Where does innocence end and grief begin?
A dog that faithfully follows behind
Stops at the centre of the wheel's brief spin.

The woman is held in a dream-web thin
In evening mist ever is leaving to find
Where innocence ends and grief begins.

Her husband works in shadowy dawn
Throwing white clay - cold, wet and fine
Bent at the centre of the wheel's brief spin

Each are affected by lose and win
The pivot of what is both sighted and blind
Where innocence ends and grief begins.

She travels in places he hasn't been
And he explores in secret - new shape and line
Each at the centre of the wheel's brief spin.

Neither will inquire the intent of the sun
Nor the dog that faithfully follows behind
Stopped at the centre of the wheel's brief spin.
Where innocence ends and grief begins.