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Even under the rain that throws a fine white blanket over the mountain and
the lake
And smothers the green islands and soaks the grass and makes a solid slow
dripping
Trickle in the sycamore; even under the rain that’s general all
over the valley and beyond;
Even under the steady rain measuring my life here on my perch beside the
big window;
Even under the remorseless singleminded grinding and colonising hegemony
of rain
The bees are out there among the furled or open flapping skirts of the
fuchsia bells,
Drifting till they find a fresh one, then settling and entering, gathering
what they need
In a slow deliberate shuddering of their whole body shaking suddenly the
honey-core
And then extracting themselves in silence — a little heavier, their
thighs gilded with pollen —
To go on cruising under the dust-fine deliquescence of damp that is the
falling rain.
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