Riddle

I share my name with the unproductive bees
who do all the work. I travel in the night,
like angels or figments of imagination.
I suffer power-cuts, but still perform
my silent ministry. Blind as a worm,
ignorantly butting forward,
I can’t be expected to distinguish
weddings from funerals. Gone by morning,
no man knows why. Are your ears burning?
Is someone walking on your grave, once again
imploring you to ask the question
you’ve always shrunk from asking?

 

Tags:poetry