Regrets; yes, many. None
as deep as that time after I didn’t stop
for a photo of four life-sized resin dinosaurs
in the trailer of a truck 
parked on the Hutt Road. Sure
I have excuses: the dog was desperate 
for a walk—she’d been shut in all day; 
there was nowhere safe to pull over; 
I could catch them on my way home.
It was hard to identify the species, 
what with only their top halves showing, 
and me lacking a background 
in palaeontology. The dinosaurs stood 
two abreast and two deep, as they would have
on the ark had Noah been instructed 
to include them, and a taut faun tarpaulin 
extended from the cab end of the trailer 
to the shoulders of the inner pair—
lending them a look in part startled 
apology/part superhero/part Christo artwork. 
Even though that dinosaur horse 
has long bolted, I’m still shutting  
the photography stable door
at every opportunity. Only this last week 
I’ve framed an uncracked clutch 
of de-nested blackbirds’ eggs, 
windswept leaves gathered to the shape 
of Australia, an oil stain so vivid
as to make a fake of the Turin Shroud.
But I’m yet to take anything to correct 
my transgression of not having snapped 
those semi-exposed reproductions, 
those plastic sentinels of the Campanian. 
For after walking the dog, I turned for home. 
But no, they were not.