After the illustration by Walter Crane

Moth-like, he circles her: an angel
incongruous on the tiger-skin rug,

her beauty too richly wrought
to lift. And yet he longs to lift

her hand, head, or the latch of her lips
– Magnificat of marigold, canticle

of candelabrum – and not to fright
at his reflection in her face, tracing

the patina that’s blossomed
to the blue of the tiger’s eye.

Alice Cattley, 17