Giraffe

All month a giraffe has been walking through
our rooms, sunlight glancing from his marbled
hide as he peers out of a window, chews
on clematis and honeysuckle.
 
We say nothing. Talking instead of unjust
wars, politics, drought, or the irritating habits
of neighbours. When friends visit
we shoo him into the box room.
 
But he understands nothing and plods
down – soft steps, his feet slipping
on floorboards as he snuffles his long lips
under the sofa, searching for crumbs.
 
When summer comes and we take our holiday
we’ll each secretly plot how to escape him,
packing the car, calling we’ll not be leaving
for ages yet as we jump in and crash gears.
 
But down the motorway, in the hum
of engine and classic fm, we’ll turn
to see him stretch out on the back seat,
chocolate eyes blinking in the breeze.

Danielle Hope

published in Acumen;
in collection, Giraffe under a Grey Sky, 2010, Rockingham Press