In the Wildlife Photography exhibition,
everyone is searching for themselves.
A thin girl in red lipstick hovers shyly
around the robin, caught mid-branch
in a foggy Paris garden, unashamed,
its beak split open in song.
There are men who steer their girlfriends
towards the big cats, wanting their reflections
recognized in the lean muscle of a leopard
flashing dart-like down the trunk of a tree,
or the depth of the lion’s gaze – pupils like flies in amber.
On her mother’s hip, a toddler points stickily at a young penguin,
more fluff than feathers. Their eyes have the same baby gleam.
Ambling happily through grizzlies and foxes,
I find us here too. Wings open, necks outstretched,
dancing clumsily at each other
on the frozen lake, our beaks proudly yellow
and yolk-bright against the snow.
Later, as we cross the road to the pub,
your gloved fingers brush my palms like feathers.
