Albert Park Lake
Beneath a palm, on the lake’s stone wall

a pixie-chinned girl cups low hands, to stress

the pregnant eruption under her dress.
Dogs on leads drag near. Joggers bounce into

the frame as her photographer squats to

catch the curve. She smiles at gusts vexing
her hair, as her eyelashes blink out

a joyful forecast from her thickened waist –

from this rude, commonplace miracle.
Twelve tall palms stiffen in grey corsets

against the wind. Black swans, collared and

numbered, dive for weed in the choppy murk.
Photos lie before the aperture

blackens. Fake smiles stay pinned under glass.

Who will recall her self conscious ache or 
the warm wind, or the low buzz of Sunday

afternoon traffic on the Queen’s Road?

That baby in his dark weatherless pond 
will never pause at his young mother’s

bump photo.  As he pushes through her

and beyond her she might turn from 
the undusted mantelpiece, to recall

this fickle sky and the smeared dog turds

on the lakeside path – and remember that 
in the screech of plovers, and the growls

of dogs, the caveat was there –

a whisper at the very beginning.