Sometimes when I look at the page

Sometimes when I look at the page

It is empty,

Well I tell a lie

It is not a page

Not nowadays

It is a screen

But it is still empty

There is a Bee on the ground

Just a few feet away,

Next to the Euphorbia

With the little red flowers

That is always in bloom,

Unlike the Bougainvillaea

Which suffered from a lack of regular watering

And perished, parched, poor thing,

Why do I keep buying them

They never did last through winter

In England, even in a conservatory

After a little while, I realise that I have been

Staring at the Bee for five minutes

It is dead

I guess it saddens me

Just a few feet from a source of nourishment

To fall dead,

It was probably dehydrated.

What is it about procrastinating

That seems to make sense

In the moment

Before leaving a large hole

Where an accomplishment should be

The page is still empty

Perhaps if I had a drink or two it would

Make things better

It is always after three-o-clock somewhere

(yes I know but this is my story)

But waking up in a field

Underneath a gum tree

Is the stuff of yesterday

I could go wine-free

However,

Would that bring back the Bee

Or change the course of history

Which is another thing about writing

Or not, in my case,

There is a tendency to overestimate

The power of your gift

If indeed you have one,

To glorify the need,

Glamourise the angst,

As if somehow there has to be suffering,

When truth to tell

There is a glut of intellectual snobbery

And a bloody messiah complex,

Not me though, I am just a wordsmith,

Gosh the Bee has just moved

Perhaps she was only resting

Overwhelmed by the hegemony

Of assigned gender roles,

How typical of these strange

Unproductive days

Even a Bee can be deceitful