Wooden Giraffe

Wooden Giraffe

There are a whole herd of you

waiting to migrate.

Some of you are knee-high,

some shoulder height,

some too tall to be practical;

all of you are born

with one thought in mind.

“We have to leave Africa.”

Silently, you gather in your ranks

your eyes burned in by searing coals.

Sightless, you stand to attention,

and wait.

Your legs are too spindly,

your necks are too long,

exaggerated to enhance your appeal.

The overlander trucks arrive

Suddenly, you have value,

pawed at, oohed over, stroked.

This momentous day

you will realise your ambitions

as purchases are made.

You bear the indignity of bubble wrap,

of tape and brown paper.

You mean nothing in the land of your birth,

no-one would have you at their hearths,

but now,

packaged by an traveller

you are raised from invisibility,

metamorphosed

from “a piece of touristy crap”

to a treasured memento of a dream,

a holiday in Deepest Darkest Africa.

© Catherine Knee