Honey

At the bottom of my garden
Amongst glossy foliage
Which shimmers and gives Nature's hue
Glistening to everything little thing
Is a beehive.
My beehive
To which I tend
And watch the bees.
Tiny pieces of amber and onyx
Fizzing, spitting ,
Splitting, splintering everywhere,
Colliding in the hum of keen labour,
A lifetime spent in servitude
As they too tend to, collect and produce
Liquid gold,
Shining molten gold,
The bittersweet taste of love's labour lost.
And this I wonder;
In all their buzzing, fuzzy glory
When the ether, when the mist of hard slog
Turned to beauty is removed,
Why?
Why do they waste a life
On such a futile cause
The chasing of a sugary, fragranced grail
To have it snatched away
Again and again?
Why do they live and die
To work for nothing ?
Why do they?
Why do we?