James Norcliffe
yet another poem about a giraffe
pity the poor giraffe
lost on the frozen steppe
his wishbone legs
make pipe-holes in the snow
the stunted furze
laughs at his reaching neck
for Africa is
sixty degrees below
the hoarfrost catches
in his soulful lashes
his brown eyes lost
beneath the arctic moon
his blotched hide a map
of hopeless wishes
the swishing tail
a pendulum of doom
so he stands withstands
the bitter polar blast
that rips the fluttering
pages of his dreams
the flickering pixels
of a brilliant past
when the world was warm
and still and green