The Sunhive

Glorious golden, wheaten, woven. The Sunhive hangs, safe and secure, in the cradling arms of the old tree. Full of syrupy sweetness, strength and wisdom of its small, mantled gold and black, dwellers. At its warm soft womblike centre the bees, in safety and comfort, prepare their Winter Feast. In peace and good health their Queen freely roams her golden halls. A stately progression through her realm. An empire free from earthbound unnatural cuboid cells. Safe and sound and high above the ground The bees happy and content, Secure our future, selfless and without intent.