The Plight of the Bumble Bee

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A LOST MEADOW FIELD

 

As a child my summer holidays were spent on an solitary spit of land by the sea in front of the coastguard cottages at Tyrella Beach. Isolated from the modern world that time forgot, with no running water nor electricity my sister and I made our own playtime. An insignificant meadow field provided endless hours of fascination, observing the natural world of humming insects and the wonders of wild flowers.

Armed only with a shrimp net and a pickle jar, this jar when inverted, provided us with an improvised magnifying glass as the concave bottom enlarged all those dancing insects with great fascination.

Wild flowers would be pressed, daisy chains made and yellow buttercups held under the chin to reflect their golden glow of that innocent era.

Now, the meadow field has gone! It lies silent. It has been recently ploughed and what was taken for granted has now disappeared.

This poem captures some of the essence and the history of this meadow field.

                                                                                                            

The Plight of the Bumble Bee

…………………

I’m lying in a meadow field, looking at the sky,
There’s a skylark above me transcending on high.
A carpet of colour of yellow, mauve and blue,
a tapestry of beauty that reminds me of you.

…………………

A sea breeze is blowing, I can feel it on my face,
amongst tall flowing sedges, waving naturally in place.
Dappled clouds are floating amongst the filtered light,
a kestrel is hovering a silhouette by site.

…………………

I’m watching the dragonfly motionless in flight,
then darts and weaves and hovers, a wonder of delight.
A palette of orchids, overlooks the sea,
a hidden world of insects, natures lynchpin you’d agree.

…………………

The daddy longlegs dances, it whirls in dulcet tones,
amongst the bright blue cornflowers, a place it calls it’s home.
The grasshopper it clicks all day you hear it from afar,
mesmerized by children as they peer into the jar.

…………………

The bumble bee it makes a hum and visits many flowers,
collecting vital nectar for out of working hours.
My tiny friends assure me of the wonders they provide,
to pollinate and network so they don’t collide.

…………………

The reassuring orchestra of insects in the air,
a chorus of humming sounds helps my soul repair.
Yellow rattle plays it’s tune in August’s windy breeze,
meadow sounds, and birdsong they put my mind at ease.

…………………

The squeaking shrew and harvest mouse they live amongst the flowers
eating seeds and berries, food kept for darkened hours.
A painted lady’s journey from Morocco is a feat,
sippingnectar from self heal, her journey now complete.

…………………

Bats are very scatty, dart in the twilight zone
feasting on insects, on their journey home.
Their silhouette is noticed, erratic in the air,
a spectacle to admire, there’s nothing to compare.

…………………

A millipede has many legs and roams within the glade,
amongst the oxide daisies they protect her in the shade.
Little things are vital, like beetles and woodlice
converting leaf mould nutrient take heed and good advice.

…………………

Worms are tireless workers, silent witness undertake,
restoring soil fertility they never take a break.
Spores and honey fungus they play a crucial role,
‘Detritus, is not a dirty work’ proposed by Mr Mole.

…………………

My meadow field has disappeared! The plough has done its job,
with modern farming practices how nature has been robbed.
Supplements of nitrogen and neonicotinoids are used,
A gluttony of pesticides sadly now misused.

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Now all the bees fall silent, and disappear from sight,
humanity and progress ignore their silent plight.
Millenniums of meadow care has gone in fifty years,
replaced by modern practices while wildlife disappears.

…………………

Resurrection can be done if we act today,
restoring past farm practices in making meadow hay.
Education’s vital and history plays its role,
sadly recommended again by Mr Mole.

…………………

Remember past traditions for caring for the land,
the hand scythe and the hay stack they both go hand in hand.
Future generations will curse us you’ll agree,
the delicate balance of a meadow field,
and the plight of the bumble bee.

…………………

Paul Larmor

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