She takes me to a gallery; an exhibition: a sale of pictures

and asks which one I should choose.
The paintings are nice.
The colour is good.
The composition fine.
The frames are worth a bob or two.

And as I think of this
passing the abattoir at midnight

a single sheep bleats.

Studies by the sea.
Pastoral scenes in Victorian style:
families grazing on the beach.

I suggest the only painting, that to my eye, contains life

a hurried sketch of a girl of seven,
in a whirl of white dress,
caught between that moment of sandcastle or sea:
tucked into a corner of the wider scene.

And, while she runs through the reasons
of why she will buy a different picture

I think of a camel.
And, the stored fat of the hump:
and her fat arse and thighs.