I had pulled up nearly all the dandelions

and plantains, before I noticed wild bees

circling the courtyard and sinking quietly

into a humble crack in the paving.

They didn’t try to hurt me, even when

I blindly dragged a table over their nest

but they look miserable now, flying low,

questioning the bare slabs.

The bees have chosen to live here

like the blue tits who post themselves 

into their nest box like unexpected gifts

before I have time to smile.

If I left the garden gate open and failed

to lock my cabin door, I might find

a stranger sitting at my writing desk

or sleeping in my day bed.

Their droppings might appear beside

the hedgehog turds I’m proud to see

under the yew tree.  They might hang

their ragged washing on my line.

Will they sit at the garden table and stare

like the doves I fed last winter who still

call hoarsely through the kitchen window

hoping I will give them bread? 

If I don’t leave food out each morning

they might bake the hedgehog

or barbecue the blue tits over a fire

while bees hum in the lavender.