Bereft

Image Source:

A poem on loss, I'm not sure if it still needs a little work, but for now I'm happy with it.

I hope you like it.

Bereft

He sat, bereft.
The powerful youth of yesteryear,
the man who’d faced all-comers, without fear;
gone.
His shrivelled frame trembled in a chair.
Fingers caressed the picture in his hand.
Monochrome locks on porcelain face,
she had always been his Grace.
Now he sat all alone,
in the house they’d called, home.
Cold walls closed in.
His broken heart,
left their home, bereft.
The fighting spirit;
gone.

John Carré Buchanan
16 September 2013

The Walk

Image Source

This poem was inspired by the line “We walked here when the trees were saplings” which I heard at a recent poetry evening in a poem called 'Sark Revisited' by Joan Ozanne. I decided to write about the woods I used to walk in on the ridge above Minden when I was based in Germany in the late 80’s.

During the many walks and runs I had along the ridge I used to marvel at the way in which the ground cover would vary. I remember the riotous colours of autumnal leaves, The way in which the trees could become coated in ice in the winter, the springs bluebells and snow drops and of course the magnificent views out across the green valley below when Hang gliders launched from one of the cafes in the summer months.

The poem caries several meanings for me, I hope you can find your own.

The Walk

I walk here; with you beside me.
Leaves tumble from the heavens above
as if bearing messages of love.
They leave a brightly coloured carpet of
rubies, bronze and gold at our feet.
Thinking of the riches
with which I’ve been blessed;
my mind wandered to a time,
when the woodland floor
bore diamonds and sapphires.
Yes;
We walked here when the trees were saplings
and looking back,
I wish I’d held your hand.

John Carré Buchanan
24 August 2012

Sark Folk Festival 2012

Image Source

The beautiful Island of Sark lies 9 miles to the East of Guernsey. It is the world’s first Dark Skies Island having so little light pollution that the nights are practically pitch dark, with only the stars and moon to light the way.

The Island has no cars and the population gets around on foot, bicycle, tractor and horse and carriage. Over the last few years Sark has hosted a Folk Festival, something which given the Islands remoteness has been a logistical challenge.

This year I went over to the festival with my Family, a trip made possible by my new wheelchair. The Festival was fantastic, with a three stages running full time and a number of other locations hosting groups or soloists.

Having spent much of my childhood in Sark I was not sure what to expect when I went over, but it was fantastic. I had to use a considerable amount of medication and all the pain management techniques I know to survive the two days I was there but when I got back to Guernsey I felt that it had all been worth it. Unfortunately over the next week, which was dominated by a major setback that view changed and I doubt I will be able to do it again.

I started writing this poem whilst I was over there and finished it today, I hope you enjoy it.

Sark Folk Festival 2012

The field stretched to hedgerows
which touched the sapphire sky.
Tall flags rippled in the breeze,
they stood like masts
or man-made trees.

Musicians and singers plied their trade
in the bowels of white marquees.
Harmony flooded Island wide
As the festival grew
Tide by tide.

An eclectic crowd on Sark landed
dressed in many styles.
Jeans and T-shirts, hippie print,
and designer labels
that cost a mint.

Cowboy hats and summer scarves
dreadlocks and bands of posies,
They sat on rugs or camping chairs
Or danced and sang
To tuneful airs.

Rich and poor had gathered there
to share a field of music.
For what really mattered there in Sark
was that everyone
Should have a lark.

John Carré Buchanan
08 July 2012

Royalty

Image Source

The Subject for our next Open Mic is Royalty, and I have decided to pen a quick poem on the subject.

As an Retired Army Officer I am proud to be both British and a Royalist. Despite being laid up with a flare up over the last week I have enjoyed watching the coverage of the Diamond Jubilee.

Three things spoilt my enjoyment of the events which I watched on Television, these were; the appalling lack of knowledge and presumably research displayed by the BBC’s reporters who for the most part babbled on inanely and failed to deliver any truly interesting commentary. Secondly the vast Number of British People who insisted in flying the Union Flag upside down (Yes there is a right way up.) and Thirdly a number of stupid idiots who insisted on carrying placards protesting the fact that the Royals dodge tax and are a waste of their hard earned money. (I suspect many of these imbeciles have been sponging off the social for years anyway!)

It was with the third point that I thought I would write the following poem which is factual and demonstrates that without even including the influence that the Royals have on foreign trade, their input to the country in terms of tourism and tax on their land equate to an estimated £115 per UK citizen per year whilst the cost calculated on the same basis is about 65 pence a year.

I hope you enjoy the poem;

(for the less knowledgeable; the broad portion of the white cross of St Andrew should be above the red band of St Patrick, and the thin white portion below, in the upper hoist canton commonly called the corner at the top nearest to the flag-pole.)

Royalty

To a child it’s about
palaces and crowns,
diamonds and rubies
and rich ermine gowns.

Immaculate soldiers
stand for hours on end.
with rifles and bearskins
our Queen to defend.

As adults we join
One of two schools
Republican or Royalist
- and the others are fools.

I’ve met the royals
At home and abroad
I’ve watched them work
And I loudly applaud

Of whirlwind visits
their lives consist
meeting and greeting
through night and day shift

One day the commonwealth
The next they’re back home
Surrounded by policemen
Wherever they roam.

Republicans argue that
they’re a waste of hard cash
but glance at the numbers
and that becomes trash

Every day of their lives
they serve our great Nation
they secure foreign investment
and enhance job creation

Each year they’re taxed
Two Billion pounds
That’s five times what they cost us
an investment most sound.

American Tourists
who flock to see our Royals
add Seventy Billion
to our National spoils.

Our royalty secure billions
for our National coffers.
They add political stability
no republic can offer.

They stretch British influence
around the world so wide.
They provide a National focus
In which most take great pride.

So stuff those who say; ‘Humbug’
and whinge about monarchy
put voice to our Anthem
and pledge them your loyalty.

John Carré Buchanan
07 June 2012

Liberation Day

The Guernsey Flag

Today Guernsey is celebrating Liberation day. I would like to take this opportunity to wish all Sarnians around the world a very happy 67th Liberation Day.

Liberation Day

A flag flies free
Over Sarnia chérie
Williams Gold Cross
On the red of St George
Enrich the beautiful blue sky
As they dance on a breeze up high

Our Elders remember when it was not so
when an imposter deigned to overthrow
When the red, black and white
Proclaimed German might.
Five years oppression
and depression

Then came the red white and blue
to bid the Germans adieu.
and from that day
the ninth of May
is celebrated every year
and on Liberation day Sarnians raise a cheer.

John Carré Buchanan
09 May 2012

In Case Of Emergency Break Glass

Image Source

In Case Of Emergency Break Glass

The box in my mind is inscribed with six words;
In case of emergency break glass.’
The memories stored within
are designed to bring me home.

Neptune hurls his cavalry at our shore
Fearsome white stallions charge
Manes fly, eyes roll and hooves pound
as they attempt to breach the wall.

Off shore, silent defenders stand, fast.
Rugged, Red , Granite shoulders
bear the brunt of the attack.
Whilst their claws tear the hearts
from the attacking steeds.

And then in the aftermath Primrose,
in the hedge rows Bluebells in the woods
And Daffodils in the fields
Tranquillity and beauty divine.

Here in these memories; I dwell
Here; I have legs that work.
Here; there is no pain.
Here; I am a man again
My blood flows; released by shattered glass.

John Carré Buchanan
04 May 2012

Early Memories - Sark IThe Woodsmen

Image Source

As a child I used to spend many of my holidays staying with my grandmother in Sark. There was a beautiful valley called Happy Valley near to my gran’s guest house. The valley had steep slides and ran down to a very dangerous, near vertical crumbly, cliff face which fell a couple hundred feet to a beach below.

The valley was used by clay pigeon shooters and my cousins, brother and I used to collect the unbroken clays and return them to supplement our pocket money. Once our bike baskets were full of clays we would often spend time playing on the wooded slope pretending to be woodsmen, building hides and traps and generally larking about.

This poem celebrates the time we spent building “Man traps” which in those days was one of my favourite games

The Woodsmen

Dappled green light,
bird song,
muffled voices.

Vine across path,
twisted upward
into branches.

Log hangs high.
Notched stick
bears weight.

Stick pokes vine
Log falls
Woodsmen laugh.

John Carré Buchanan
07 April 2012

Early Memories - Guernsey VI A Lighter Side

Image Source

One teacher we had was a tiny man, dwarfed by the tallest first years, he seemed to have one of those characters that are associated with small people. He was a bully, who liked to shout and would often start a lesson by giving the whole class detention.

This man was clearly not cut out to be a teacher and I seem to remember that he did not last a full year at the school.

The poem below describes students bullying a teacher which seemed funny at the time, but looking back at it was not so laudable. That said the point I am trying to make in the poem is that sometimes when you fully expect the whole world to come crashing down on you, as by rights the two lads and those who were laughing at the teachers misery should have done, the unexpected can happen. I guess that morning the deputy head was thinking the teacher would benefit from some of his own medicine, and he did the bare minimum to stop what was happening.

I have always wondered what happened in the staff room when he was next in there?

Early Memories - Guernsey VI - A Lighter Side

The teacher was but four foot six
the juniors towered over him,
he’d scream and shout all day long,
and the boys just ignored him.

He was a vicious little man.
His pupils grew to hate him.
The other teachers tried their best
but they obviously found him grating.

One day as I walked along behind him,
two boys picked him up!
They walked along; his little body
dangling between them.

Then around the corner came Vernon,
he was the deputy head.
Strict and fair and very scary;
I thought they’d soon be dead.

He yelled; “Put that teacher down!”
and the two lads dropped him smartly.
Strangely Vernon carried on,
He did not stop to scold them.

Once they’d passed, I saw his face
light up in silent laughter;
and in that instant, I understood
how human was this master.

John Carré Buchanan
24 March 2012

Early Memories Guernsey V



Image Source

When I was in the fourth form we had a common room which was split into two levels with a large under-floor space between them. The common room was decorated with hanging tie-died sheets and carpet tiles from the carpet shop sample catalogues. The common room was pretty much our own space and we were, for the most part, left alone, to do what we wanted in it.

Someone, I can’t remember who (honest), had the bright idea of making our own alcohol and we set trying to make cider. In those days there was no internet and we were boys so we didn’t do books! This left us at a slight disadvantage as we had only learned the very basics of making alcohol in biology.

The following poem is my memory of a couple of terms spent making cider. I hope you enjoy it.

Early Memories Guernsey V

In biology we’d made alcohol
which sparked the great idea;
to make our own cider
to drink at end of year.

We scrumped and crushed the apples
and collected all the juice,
which we stored in a glass flagon;
purloined for just this use.

One lad acquired some yeast
on a trip to the brewery.
A great big yellow lump of it
which made it bubble with fury.

The sugar came real easy
as tea was served at break
and pockets full of sugar
were delivered with a shake.

So juice, yeast and sugar
were mixed in a bubbling flagon
kept warm under the floorboards
by leaving an electric bulb on.

It made a murky, frothy potion
which needed to be strained,
so we made a filter with a loo roll
through which the mix was drained.

The result was pink in colour?
The loo roll without a doubt!
The first few sips drew gasps
as we choked and spat it out.

Five minutes later, our precious brew
was tipped into the gutter;
and the evil smelling pink concoction
down the drain did splutter.

The next few weeks a funny smell
pervaded the whole area.
The masters tried to find the source,
While we - kept silent - of course.

John Carré Buchanan
23 March 2012

Early Memories Guernsey IV

Image Source

I was 11 when I moved down to what we called the ‘Upper School’, the boarding school was much bigger with 65 boarders instead of 16. During the first few years we lived in ‘New Block’ which makes the corner of Upland Road and the Grange. In those days there was one large dormitory upstairs and another downstairs and each slept 22 boys with 18 inches between each bed.

The prefects or duty house master were responsible for lights out and would usually insist on silence before flipping the light switch and going back to whatever they were doing before their duties interrupted them.

It was then that the youngest boy known as the ‘KV’ (Abbreviated ‘Cave’ = Latin for ‘Beware’) would let us know that they had gone and the fun would start. This poem records one of the activities which used to happen from time to time.

Early Memories Guernsey IV

The lights went out and the dormitory fell silent,
beyond the door retreating footsteps descended the stairs.
The youngest eyes watched from the sash window
waiting for the duty prefect to leave the building.
The word “ok” was whispered.
From the other end of the dorm a sash could be heard opening.
Silently a young lad slipped clothes over his pyjamas.
Then he ducked through the first floor window.
A shadow stole along the wall to the lamp post,
It slipped silently down and disappeared.
Footfall, barely audible could be heard padding off into the night.
Using all available cover the young boy stole unseen along the road,
hiding from passing headlamps and skirting pedestrians.
His pulse pounded in his ear as he passed the old graveyard,
he hoped his racing heart couldn’t be heard.
Slipping between the bushes he passed the tower and fire station.
His objective now in view he waited behind a bush
biding his time, watching silently for familiar faces.
Then, all clear, he slipped across the road and through the door
approaching the counter, pyjamas legs showing beneath his jeans,
he uttered; “Twenty two packets of chips please!”

John Carré Buchanan
21 March 2012

Early Memories Guernsey I

When I was seven I was sent to boarding school, I have three memories of my first day; the first was calling the housemaster 'Sir', it was the first time I had ever called anyone Sir, and for some reason it made me feel grown up.

My second memory of that day was falling out of a tree house and splitting my head open within about half an hour of my parent leaving me there. My parents only found out about this when I mentioned it some forty years later.

The overarching memory was being left, and the following poem describes how the excitement that my parents had built up turned into a feeling of being utterly alone, but also being aware that I must not show I was upset. I hope you like it.

Early Memories Guernsey I

Today was the day I’d been prepared for
I was bubbling with excitement
as we neared the big blue door.
We were met by a teacher
my Mum my Dad and me,
he was going to be the Dad
of my brand new family.
Later on; that same day
my parents said goodbye
and I was left, a little boy
determined not to cry.

John Carré Buchanan
07 February 2012

Guernsey Poets A New Blog From Guernsey

This is just a quick post for any of my readers, and all lovers of good poetry, to let them know about a new Blog I have set up on behalf of the Poets in Guernsey. 

The Blog allows Guernsey Poets of all ages to present their work to the world. 

It can be found here.  GuernseyPoets.Blogspot.com.

Please take a little tiime to visit it?

John Buchanan

Birdsong

Over the last few years the pain in my right leg has worsened to the point where walking, even with the aid of two sticks has become too painful. Despite having worked extremely hard to retain the ability to walk, the distance I have been able to endure has slowly decreased.

Towards the end of December I borrowed a wheelchair from a friend. I was not eager to do this as it could be seen as quitting, but I had the feeling that it might just offer me something I had been missing.

During the last week I have been out for several ‘wheels’ (walks or pushes) and I have learnt that the chair brings me two valuable gifts. The first is the ability to exercise and burn off some of the weight I have accumulated through comfort eating. Secondly and perhaps more importantly the chair gives me the ability to get out and about.

The chair will not be a permanent feature of my life, but rather than another tool I can use to battle the demon that is CRPS.

I wrote this poem to celebrate my return from one such wheel. Please feel free to leave a comment.

Birdsong

Sweet music envelopes my soul
it soothes away tension
and warms a heart, that pain
cooled and hardened.

I sit in a country lane
and listen to birds
as they sing of freedom amidst
the branches of leaf stripped trees.

At home two sticks rest.
Today a wheelchair bore me
to a place I could not reach
and for a while, bought me freedom.

John Carré Buchanan
10 January 2012

Silence

A few weeks ago I attended a poetry workshop in a lovely old house owned by a friend. The weekend allowed me to spend a considerable amount of time in large silent rooms and uninterrupted; I managed to write 5 poems in 2 days. This poem came about as I sat in the drawing room and listened to the silence.

Sitting in silence is an interesting thing to do. If you try it you will quickly discover that we are very rarely able to sit in total silence. That day I could hear an orchestra playing in the old house.

Silence

The house is quiet, but not silent.
I can hear an orchestra.

The stray branch which scrapes the window
mimics the strings as they warm up.

As wind caresses the chimney pot
a flute plays in the fire place.

The ‘woods wind’ can be heard
through the old sash windows.

The rattle of a door as it sways against its latch
adds percussion.

Then, as a spoon tinkles in a distant cup
and a pianist springs to life.

In the hall the grandfather clock conducts
beating out a steady rhythm.

Footsteps herald the arrival of coffee
and the moment passes.

John Carré Buchanan
21 September 2011

Saints Bay

I live a few hundred meters from a beautiful secluded bay called Saints Bay. The steep descent to the bay and the lack of parking mean that whilst it is one of the best beaches in Guernsey it is never too crowded. Unfortunately it also means that on most days I am unable to get down on to the beach too, but I hold the memories of the bay in my mind. I thought I would share these memories with you;

Saint’s Bay

The stone tower overlooks the bay,
round, grey and austere
it’s slotted windows ever watchful.

Down below two granite slipways
slide from land to sea,
red carpets of welcome.

Grey stones give way to golden sand
exposed by the retreating tide,
silver pools glinting here and there.

Around the bay tall cliffs
stand like sentinels,
clothed in vibrant green.

Waves rush ashore and withdraw,
their white petticoats
flowing over the sand.

Beyond the breakers
pink and orange buoys bob happily
waiting for boats to return.

Lying on the stones, eyes closed,
I listen to birdsong, wave rushed pebbles
and the chatter of children.

The heady scent of honeysuckle
and the fresh sea air
assail my senses.

The pebbles I lie on are hard,
but their smooth surfaces have been warmed
By the sun’s loving gaze.

Here in the bay of the saints,
eyes closed in glorious worship,
I am at home – Heaven.

John Carré Buchanan
12 July 2010

Home

I have been very fortunate to have travelled the world extensively as both child and adult. I was born in Trinidad and sailed back to the Channel Islands via the UK at the age of about 6 weeks. Shortly after that we sailed out to Kenya via the Suez Canal. I remained in East Africa for Three years before returning to Britain via the Cape of Good Hope. By the time I was four I had crossed the Atlantic and circumnavigated Africa on board 3 liners.

My parents knew that if I continued to live with them I would be constantly changing school and in order that I had a stable education they sent me to boarding school whilst they continued to Globe Trot. By this time Airliners had become the normal means of travel and so my school Holidays were full of trips to exotic countries such as; Ascension Island, Mauritius, Hong Kong, Grand Cayman and Gibraltar, to name a few.

This nomadic lifestyle continued when I joined the Army on leaving school. I moved regularly sometimes for a few weeks and other times for months or years. By the time I left the Army the longest I had lived in one place was three years.

I have now lived in Guernsey for eight years and I am still enjoying the stability that has come with remaining in one place. I was thinking about this about a year ago and thought that it might be fun to pen some verse on the different forms of accommodation I have lived in over the years. I hope you enjoy the results of this endeavour;

Home

I boarded at school
along with my brother,
spending our holls.
with Father and Mother.

I’ve lived in the tropics,
the Far East and near,
a while in the US,
I even lived here.

I spent years in barracks
surrounded by wire,
with guards on the gate
ready to fire.

I’ve lived in a trench,
in all kinds of weather,
wrapped in a poncho
surrounded by heather.

I lived in a port
in a bombed out warehouse.
In Hong Kong I lived in
a parquet floored penthouse.

I spent six months
In a far off region,
sharing a camp
with the Foreign Legion.

Now refugee camps
are not “state of the art”;
they have to be uncomfortable
so people depart.

While a shipping container’s
a ready made shelter
it’s freezing in winter,
and in summer you swelter.

The heat of a jungle
the cold of the snow
these are the things
I’ve come to know

I’ve lived in buildings
as tall as the sky
and down in the cuds
but these I decry;

For all of these places
have become part of me,
but none were a home
without my family.

John Carré Buchanan
25 September 2010

Image: NASA/Via the Daily Mail

Framed

Autumn is on its way and the garden is beginning to shut down. Soon leaves will start to turn orange and red. I am told that the weather this year has been unusually good for photosynthesis and as such many plants are carrying high levels of sugar. This means we are likely to see a particularly colourful autumn this year. Add to that, the fact that some plants have been tricked into flowering again by a last minute Indian summer, and it is a truly amazing time to be looking at what is happening in the garden.

A few months ago when I was working I remember rushing out to the car sticks in hand bag falling off shoulder and running into a web that a spider had spun across the archway. I remember cursing the spider as I removed silk from my face and then, having had a pang of guilt recriminating myself for destroying his/her web. I ended up concluding that it was a stupid place for a spider to put a web. I then threw everything into the car and rushed off to work.

A couple of weeks ago I was again leaving the house, this time considerably slower and less cluttered. This time I had time to stop and admire the spider's work before ducking under it and heading off. The image of the beautiful web hanging in the Jasmine framed archway around our front door stuck in my mind. It is now two weeks later and I can still see how the sun glinted on the web which was set off by the greens of the jasmine leaves.

That day I learnt a valuable lesson; When you rush through life you may occasionally notice things, particularly if they slap you in the face, but the memories of them are indistinct and fade, smothered by the adverse feelings associated with rushing. But if you take time to live each moment of your life at the speed at which it was designed to be lived at, you will notice more, remember more and enjoy your life more.

Who knows if you then take the time to write about it, you may even be able to share the moment with others and make a moment in time seem like an age.

Here is my poem; not as grand as the spiders web and not as beautiful as the Jasmine, but enough for me to share the moment. I hope you enjoy it;

Framed

Broken sun light shines through the jasmine
which wrecks the symmetry of the stone arch.

The jumble of green leaves and white flowers,
burst from the frame, as if to claim nature has no order.

Yet at the apex of the curve, the light hints -
as it glints through drops on a line, that this is not so.

Here in this space, of scented chaos
hangs a pure symmetry of silken thread.

Did the spider know when it wove its web
of nature’s plan to frame it?

John Carré Buchanan
16 September 2011

The Watchers

I spent the afternoon watching my son surf on Vazon beach. Whilst I watched I wrote two poems. The first I called;

The Watchers

Waves roll in from the West
their green backs rise and morph
to tumbling white spume
just before the flat expanse
of golden sand.

Beyond the breakers
a line of silhouettes sit
watching, waiting
rising and falling as rollers
power shoreward beneath them.

Beyond them a kite surfer
prowls the shore line
occasionally leaping skyward
to sour on the wind
like a graceful albatross.

The watchers sit up
some turn toward shore
the green wall bears down
tt stands tall but does not break
and surfers begin to paddle.

Gracefully they spring to kneel
and then stand
their boards turn and glide
ahead of the foaming mass
as the ocean carries them in.

John Carré Buchanan
28 August 2011

Go-Carts

A couple of weeks ago week my son asked if I had any wheels or wood which I could donate to his Scouts troop for a Go Carting event they were holding. We scraped together a few items and took them up to the Scout hut last Friday in order that the Scouts could make a couple of carts. When I collected him later that evening the pile of parts had grown slightly and a project for the remainder of the week was born.

Each evening after school the two of us worked together to make a cart. I must admit that watching him use my circular saw, and other power tools was slightly nerve-racking but also very rewarding. I watched with pride as he marked, cut and drilled the wood, and I listened as he voiced ideas and worked out what was required.

Whilst we worked I remembered a cart I made in 1974 when I was lived in Ascension Island. I built it using scraps I had salvaged from the Georgetown dump, (that dump seemed to hold everything; I even scavenged a hacksaw blade to cut the axle free from the heap of twisted metal it was entangled in). I also remember using my father’s power tools.

For me the our project took on new meaning. Here was I reliving events from my childhood through the eyes of a father, and whilst my size and weight precluded me from ever driving the finished product, somehow I knew that I was with him as he sped down the hill for the first time.

The best bit though was spending time working on the project with my son, and enjoying his company. The 2 pictures were taken 37 years apart.

Go-Carts

The shed had been overturned,
a pile of debris sat challenging;
planks of wood, an old bike,
a length of rope a lawnmower wheel.

He remembered being ten
Sitting on the scrap heap
using scavenged tools
to create a similar pile.

Back then his mind saw the sleek lines,
could feel the wind in his hair;
the joy of being free
As he raced down the hill.

Now younger eyes looked up, pleading.
A smile cracked his face
the unspoken deal made
as father looked at son.

They toiled together
Small hands on large tools,
proud father watching on
lending power and advice.

Finally they stood together, smiling.
A cart had risen like a phoenix
from the pile of debris.
It stood awaiting its maiden run.

With foot on brake the young driver
looking eagerly down the hill.
His father proffered advice and then
They were off…..

Two hearts pound in unison
Speed picks up, corner smoothly taken.
Father remembering the childhood joy;
As they raced down the hill together.

John Carré Buchanan
25 June 2011

The Factory

It's been raining for most of the day in Guernsey. Having had so much sun recently I see the rain as a blessing as it will help to wash the dust off the hedgerow plants and add sparkle to the Jewel that is our Island.

One other benefit is that I have had some extra time to work on a poem I started in the Icart Garden earlier in the week. I hope you like it:

The Factory

The tall Echium sways in the breeze.
A myriad of purple trumpets call
summoning the tiger striped workforce
with a silent blast of colour and scent.

Starting from the base the workers ascend,
diligently probing each nectary as they pass.
Their wings hum briefly as they move on
practicing allogamy as they go.

From the cap they drop on to the breeze
and fly onward; to the next tower.
They don’t punch in and out
the bright sun’s course tracks their day.

Elsewhere the plant’s red and black security staff,
Keep a watchful eye, removing;
'All Pubescent Hoodlums Intending Disrupting Supply’,
By eating them!

Here in nature’s factory
everyone plays their part;
and the humble poet watching
marvels at the art.

John Carré Buchanan
11 June 2011