Grey Trunks

Grey trunks stand.

Trees denuded
of branches and leaves.
Not a petrified coppice.
No. Concrete pillars.

Looks more natural,
with that bark pattern,
says someone.

Grey trunks sway.

Elephants ignore
the gawping crowd.
Not the African lot this,
with big ears.
But the Indians.
Different not because they hear
differently,
but because of the heat.
A European one,
would have them yet smaller
still frillier
maybe.

Straw.
Dung.
Soil.
Concrete.
Trampled all
by feet
topped with legs like
trees themselves.
Yet no roots.

Endangered in the wild,
says the sign.

Look,
says the child,
they’re all smiling,

The bull charges.
Half-hearted.
Slow gaited.
Stopped by trees
that are
not there.
As he expected.
Grey to grey.
Trunk to trunk.
Smart enough
not to try.

Never broke one yet.

Eyeing the watchers.
Its permanent smile obscured
by the concrete stump
remnant of a branch
that never was.

The bull stands.

Comments are closed.