The nurses told your children first,
Passed on the news, passed on the task
Of calling, corralling the mass
Of scraps you left behind.
By no means Complete Collected Works,
But hardly either a meagre sum: a hive,
Four degrees, a swarm of type,
Assorted memories and sons.
Your greying boys will tell the bees
How, well after harvest, you still stirred
Sweetness into each cup of tea, served
Honey with every course.
