The Last Bee Sings
By Christina Stenhoff
Location: Blenheim Avenue, Whalley Range
This poem was a finalist in our Rainy City Love Stories competition
Every morning the grasses weep
and chant your royal name.
Foretold perhaps in the frenzy of
your midday, honey-drunk dance, yet
all afternoon I searched the
entire scorching garden for a trace.
The orchids gave nothing away.
I should have known as much.
I wanted to cry, but my face was hot,
tight, unrelenting, a dumb mask.
I returned to the broodless hive
and it was then that I knew.
We’d watched the whole colony
collapse around our feet.
Then we flew, triple speed, to other hives,
found nothing, no-one.
The cells, empty alveoli of a dead lung.
We remembered our purpose.
I shuddered inside of you
feeling the weight of creation upon us.
Our bodies taught, tessellate.
Your hum, a Vedic hymn; I miss it.
Christina Stenhoff is in the final year of a creative writing MA at Manchester Metropolitan University.