The Factory - John Buchanan

The tall Echium sways in the breeze.
A myriad of purple trumpets call
summoning the tiger striped workforce
with a silent blast of colour and scent.

Starting from the base the workers ascend,
diligently probing each nectary as they pass.
Their wings hum briefly as they move on
practicing allogamy as they go.

From the cap they drop on to the breeze
and fly onward; to the next tower.
They don’t punch in and out
the bright sun’s course tracks their day.

Elsewhere the plant’s red and black security staff,
Keep a watchful eye, removing;
‘All Pubescent Hoodlum Intending Disrupting Supply’,
By eating them.

Here in nature’s factory
everyone plays their part;
and the humble poet watching
marvels at the art.

John Buchanan