In tune

by Helen Overell

The flower, golden as the sun, opens
only to the sound of Middle C

and so is wooed by wing-beats –
each bee that settles, whose hum

strikes the right note, drinks deep,
and his furred, striped body

blurs in a cloud-burst of pollen
that is carried onwards, brushed

into other blooms nearby, until,
sated with nectar, the worker

zig-zags home to his brothers,
dances his day, and in this way

seed sets, ripens, falls to earth
and so awaits our tomorrows.