At the snake park last year
We saw chameleons in a bush.
"10 of them," they told us,
"And no one has ever seen them all."
So we craned our necks into the foliage.
Though you did not see the ones I saw,
Our count had simply stopped at 4.
A brown one sat smartly on a twig
Another was blotched yellow and green.
They hid behind leaves and twigs
As poets behind words and music,
Taking even the colours to heart.
"Look," you said, "They even change
The colour of their eyes"
So I peered and looked straight into
The eyes of a poet.
Both happy and sad at being found,
He was a reflection of his world
And yet he stared back so defiant
As if the world were a reflection of him.