The Goldfish

I bought, on a whim, a goldfish for a good girl.
It swam in an antique bowl in the kitchen there,
creative among the lentils and the marmalade,
painting itself over and over, self-portrait in liquid;
learning its letters, O for oxygen, for only.

                                                 It seemed fulfilled;
the halo of its constant swim unrolling a pond
below willow trees, an imperial palace garden
where the poet sat, floating on silence; a mouth opening
to gold: walking towards her, carrying fragrant tea,
her beloved, favourite child.

Carol Ann Duffy in The Bees