The bee

Grandpa waved and waved his arms

as if the libeccio in a fit of madness

had turned him into a scarecrow.

The afternoon was still and breathless,

not a snort of wind, not a thread of cloud.

It was a bee which Grandpa

was franctically after.

It first buzzed about the table

when Granny brought the melon;

it reappeared from somewhere

when it smelt the grilled sirloin.

By cheesetime Grandpa was so red

that he grabbed his empty glass and

in one swift motion belljarred the bee in.

It was as surprised as any of us,

banging on the lightletting walls.

Wine trickled down and formed

a circle of red on the sunstained

plastic cover. All were amused but I,

I couldn't take my eyes off the scene,

the tragedy wrought in a second.

The cutglass patterns drew

crosses of light which seemed

to dazzle the insect.

After a long while it grew tired,

or it fell into the purple ring;

it drank or perhaps drowned,

tittered, its wings jerking slowly

refused to carry it further, or perhaps

they had crushed on the glass.

The bee circled the rim, sensing air maybe,

its antennae erratic, its head rocking;

perhaps still drinking, or choking

on the spirits trapped inside.

It remained motionless for a while.

Grandpa lifted his glass and filled it,

gulped half of it, his eyes on the bee.

Watching the bee, which lay here,

unmoving, playing dead I hoped.

I had also hoped it had left its sting

so that Grandpa would gobble it down.

Neither of these things were happening.

I looked up and saw him observe me.

Perhaps he had been watching me all along.

He took a paper napkin, scooped up

the dead bee with an unbrutal motion

of his gigantic hand, walked

in the scorching summer sun

to the patch of verbena,

dug a small trench,

dropped the bee in.

When he sat back down

only the disturbed flowerbed

and the circle of red

bore proof that anything

had ever happened here.