Yellowjackets
A farmer in Alabama
had to sneak, like a thief,
into his own barn
in the middle of the night
to get his tractor out.
They have been known
to colonise abandoned cars
and empty buildings
completely, monumentally.
And now, they’re nesting
behind the bargeboard
right here, outside
our bedroom window.
Teetering on a ladder
under the gable apex,
blowtorch in one hand,
garden hose in the other,
is a no, nay, never option.
After the plum season
(O, plums the colour of death)
the queen will issue no more
labour instructions,
and they’re on their own.
Tens of thousands
of dedicated papermakers
will be unemployed,
restless and irascible.
But today I still move lightly
among the raspberries.
Ahimsa, ladies, please,
I whisper, trying
to keep an eye on each.
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