Little enough to walk straight under the turnstile
and sashay gleefully out of sight, her yellow coat
flashing through pushchairs and arches, winking goodbye
to the throng while I pocket my change, call out,
she does not stop to look at a thing
until we reach the piped cicada and birdsong paradise
of polystyrene crag and spot-lit vegetation
where lizard-hipped dinosaurs
guzzle their catch, dip animated heads to feed in turn
from its fat throat, slashed flank and belly.
I want to go, she wants to stay, explains
those little ones there are kissing their mummy.