THE WINTER CLUSTER Poem by Norbert Hummelt

the bees are huddled in their winter cluster, we can't see
them now at this time of year; their buzzing hardly makes
it through the mouth of their box as a distant droning in my
weak ear .. they're huddled closely there in a constant whirr
and it's this whirring that keeps them warm. and for the days
when it's freezing, says the beekeeper, that's what I make
the sugar preparation for. the sugar preparation: yes, that
always worked. long ago I myself huddled in such a cluster,
with the voices constantly buzzing all around and no gaps at
all in the conversation. I sat as a child at the laden table. the
coffee watery, hardly worth the name, I could drink it even
as a child. the kettle was always on the stove. the room was
insulated from the outside world. all year round a lamp would
give off light. but the cherry pie was without compare and
there was never a sunday without cherry pie. the pastry base
and then the cream that was always freshly whipped .. I never
wanted to leave that cluster. I can hardly hear what the beekeeper
says: when the rapeseed is in flower at the end of may .. when we
were given five marks for every hive. the honey for this year is
spun. the bees are huddled in their winter cluster, keeping warm
with their whirring; not even my childhood faith can keep me
warm any more. I cannot whirr and I have no swarm. I simply
stand there and walk a few steps from the blackberry bush to
the hive and for a while I can stay in the garden until I'm called
in for coffee: just coming be there in a moment .. I stand before
the hive with empty hands. the rain is drumming down on the
roof of the arbour. the bees are huddled in their winter cluster.