Last Moments Poem by Richard George

I feel sorry for bumblebees.
They don't make honey.
They're the fat churls,
the patronized teddy bears.
We could do without them.

One's grounded. I want to help
it up. But it's fading.
It lifts a leg as though to say
'Leave me alone'.
Peering concerned

I can see its eye:
it's frightened, I can see fear
in the black eye of a bumblebee.
It is telling me 'Let me go.

My time has come'.

In crystal evening silence
I respect its wishes.
And please

when I am dying,
half way to the ocean where we were before we were,

do not drag me back.