The bees, this year, br have come before the swallows dare br and take the wings of April br inadvisedly; br br ignoring the cloud of jasmine around the open door, br incurious, it seems, about the front garden’s offerings, br they swoop into the house, br take a left turn where the corridor gets darker, br and land up in the front room; where br they swoop again, then like lost souls br start for here and there, change flight-plan, br and end up nosing uselessly against the window br which doesn’t open; crawl a bit; and br surprisingly soon, fall down, on their backs, br legs folded in some final surrender br just enough like a human being, to chill… br br I take the kitchen strainer br since it’s larger than a jam-jar, reaches further, br dab a touch of first-aid honey on the rim, br persuade them to settle on its promise, br and whisk them off to the front door, br tap them into freedom. br br I thought that bees were focussed, busy, pretty bright, br with radar, iPods, mobile cell-phones all built in; br this year, they’re aimless as illegal immigrants br hoping to exist, but not to work.. br surely even wild bees have a sense of home? br ‘Go back where you came from…’ I yell at them br like some nationalist speaker at a rally… br there is now no Limbo for these lost souls, it seems; br bees, who through the centuries br were said to have close links to human souls… br it’s puzzling, disturbing, too close for comfort, br or for ignoring.