Coming to age

by Grahaeme Barrasford Young

I’d be mouldy bones by now, a hundred years ago.
Time to admit age, time to wonder running out:
what tells 10,000 ants they must clamber
every egg to a different distant nest;
how does a bee feel finding an emptied flower;
why can two frenzied larks merge to hawk;
where is a mountain I can always climb;
do we sit in darkness, our switch lost;
when will our universe decide its fate,
what is that fate and does it matter?
Bees and ants and tardigrades don’t care.