It was the year before last that
I started to notice it.

Bees wandered into the house
then didn’t remember the way back

Bees. Whose sense of direction used to be
great than any Indian scout;

as if mankind had lost its most valuable gift
-what might that be?

Scientists are still working on the reasons.
There were more lost bees last year;

when they’re half exhausted and quieten down,
staying on the window pane for a few second more,

I take a jam jar and a piece of paper
and take them to the door

talking to them as I did when
I buried that baby swallow when I was four;

indecipherable words that I would use
to a cat run over in the road,

a child in pain; some sort of sounds
of consolation for what’s beyond words anyway

that only music could express.
It’s ancient: you should talk to bees;

tell them of all that affects the house, the family;
when there’s a death, you put a piece of black cloth

on the hive. In return, they do things for you
that are beyond your notice or their explanation.

How can I tell them, we’re so sorry for you, we don’t know,
when we do we’ll tell you; it’s probably our fault,

chemicals and stuff. So far this year, only one
huge bumble-bee, I couldn’t catch it;

it hid from me. Perhaps they’ve learned
whatever it is they had forgotten;

perhaps they risked their lives
to warn us: you too have forgotten

something that could kill your species:
you too, have forgotten the way back…

Michael Shepherd

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/telling-the-bees-2/