Father's Fighting Wasps

Father’s fighting wasps,

Maybe two hundred,

Wielding a power-hose

And dressed in a one-piece

Electrician’s water-proof uniform,

His blue statue stares down

The trimmed green fern,

The battle cries of forced jets

Bounce off the cobwebbed edges,

Sending death’s debris across the tight air,

Stung twice the day before,

His wounds fuel the war,

Hurt, he’ll carry on

To try protect his only family,

A few, dazzled and wet, surveys

In shocked suspense the enemy,

Perhaps attack, protect the nest,

Admit defeat and flee, the rest

Will follow his great lead,

But instead they dive inside

To see what’s left of their abode,

Shattered bodies, drenched walls,

The broken wings and severed limbs

Stuck to sap, terror, horror,

Hundreds dead, none have fled,

They cling instead onto themselves

With human understanding,

Accepting nobly their mistake,

Surrendering to honour only,

And my father, lord of war,

Having never hurt another,

Wears a frown inhuman,

Swapping roles in nature

Over war’s disgusting roulette table,

And I barely recognise the man.

I see more of him in them.

Father, my father: two hundred dying wasps.