Hill

And perhaps it is coincidence you say

The bees do not awake to join the fray
There are still none present upon my hill
No buzzing wings penetrate daffodil
And where they are I have no clue
But we are the poorer for it, that is true
And clouds build to mountains of grey
Brood and scatter rain upon the day
And without sound of droning bee
Spring is lessened for you and me