The dance of tigers seems ill fitted
to this life of camouflage,
who might prowl or might bounce
over cobbled streets.
Under baskets of summer cheer
a mind’s grass can be lengthened,
covering a much wilder nurture.
Pawsteps behind footsteps
to pass at another watering hole,
and feel the reds brimming orange
under chameleon surface skin;
a were-tiger deliberates
on showing off his full palette.
Behind all bookshelves, authors
scented, preyed upon,
spines bright with treetop imagination.
New targets to steadily devour,
yet claws are retractable scratchers
where the unknowing becomes known.
The tigger which is clamoured
to be released, taps a tango
or two with his colourful, swinging tail.
And you thought the tiger
was a real one? Imaginatively it is.