Lying just under syrup-film surface
St Vitus’ dance, pushing against ductile bonds
back-flips and breaststroke.

I, with my rolled up Mirror, swatted
surprised eyes followed the arc and    plop!
That lemonade is useless now.

What did it think as it drew its last?
Enjoy the tang?  Panic?
Does it realise?

Will it feel the bubbles push past?
It could grab one, **** the air.
I might dip my finger, crush or flick.

Gran and Granddad chatter drowned,
roast lamb, pipe and sunshine.
I twist the glass to get a better view.

The twitch slower, body fizz-jiving
will it sink to the lemonade-bed,
limp and cheerless?


I could stop this, the thought pushed aside by fascination.
Minutes tick past, chimes cut with miscounted accuracy.
I realise the last witness feels sad.