Exeunt

I'm trying to leave. Below the pond

a spill of tadpoles is struggling in no more

than a teaspoon of rain.

Pinching up blobs of black jelly when

no sound betrays pain or pulping is grim;

I find a leaf, scoop them. They cling

in a scrawl of commas and speech marks,

pause their frantic wriggling.

Did you answer that last question? Did you listen?

Slack, wet blisters flicked back into the pond.

I watch them sink from view, wish them

godspeed in the realm of the slinty-eyed newt,

his thrust and glide, his thin-lipped smile.

What ever happened to us?