As a child I would watch enthralled whilst small furry bodies balanced on spindle legs, clutched and clung to the most delicate of petals, as they flitted from bloom to bloom.
Bees; swift, soft, oblivious to my presence, buzzing in and out of woodland flowers; disappearing into the speckled trumpets of foxgloves to emerge moments later, legs powdered with pollen. Sometimes I would stretch out small fingers, sliding them slowly into the silky blooms, trying to feel what it could be like to crawl inside each inviting flower.
In my Godmother's orchard there were bees a plenty, dancing amongst the daffodils on warm Spring days; landing briefly on ancient white wood hives, long since abandoned; before spiralling up through mossed apple trees and away into bright blue skies.
By Summer's end we would find them drunk on nectar, too sated to fly; clutching at grass stems in an effort to launch themselves into the air . Many a bee has been lovingly scooped up on a fresh picked leaf, and gently placed on a window ledge to sleep off their excess before taking to the skies once more.
So now, we plant sweet smelling flowers and wait for the bees to come......