Between stained flagstones and a sunken basement patio
a row of Lavenders shoot out—protectors from invaders.
Plants grow leggy, lose branches at their base. Bees also
lose mass. A local dog digs a trench for the invaders.
Whiff of dead mice under our wooden floors. Neighbours
suspect wrong. We are the sole invaders. Los invasores.
They didn’t come this year. The bees lost track of us.
Neonicotinoids. When will they get here, the invaders?
Neon flowers collapsed—broken stalks barely hang-
on, detritus piled up. A proclamation: Beware of Invaders.
Covered in pollen, our sunglasses under English skies.
I sing to old bees. You read a book on the conquistadors.
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