Jumbo

Jumbo

It starts with a gate that is wide enough for a lorry,
a bell that rings like a brass corgi, and a queue that stretches
far beyond the coffee stall where the barista stirs the instant,
measuring his cup in teacups and teaspoons for his boil‑over.

A jumbo jet, a converted fly‑over, blinks across the south‑east sky,
its engines a thrum that feels like the rumble in a city’s heart:
the throb of the Tube, the whistle of a bus, the hiss of a steam‑engine,
all wedded in one iron‑clad wing.

The Bill of Rights croons a song of independence,
while the Jumbo brand on the supermarket shelf
promises more than just groceries—
it promises a summer, a road‑trip, an empty pan for a roast,
the cheap thrill of an extra loaf of bread.

Standing in the shop, I observe the people:
a boy in a green jump suit lifts a box of Jumbo cereal,
his cheek flushed, eyes bright with the promise of a new topping.
An old lady with her bright scarf says that the colour of Jumbo*
is better at catching her eye than an off‑white stick of butter.

We call it jumbo because we understand, here, size has a
cunning kind of weight:
a big car that will fit everyone in the car park,
a big kettle for a village cup of tea, a big hollow in the coal‑mines,
a big plan that no one will ever finish.

And when the final bell rings and the lorry hauls the jumbo furniture out,
the whole flat gives a sigh that sounds almost like a bellow in the night.

In our world, jumbo is more than size—
it's the echo of the hillside, the not‑quite‑mad joy,
the promise of a tomorrow that will never be humble.

Jumbo.