Trunk

Ode to the Trunk

In the hush of savanna grass, the elephant swings
a supple, sinewy trunk—
a hose that draws cool water, a hand that plucks fruit,
a trumpet that calls the herd to wander.

Beneath the canopy, an ancient oak stands,
its gnarled trunk a chronicle of rings,
each layer a whisper of storms survived,
of sap rising slow, of leaves turning gold.

At the station, a battered leather trunk waits,
its brass clasps catching the morning light,
filled with woollen scarves, half‑read novels,
the scent of tea and the promise of travel.

And in the city, a sleek lorry glides,
its rear boot yawning like a quiet mouth,
carrying parcels, parcels of hope,
through rain‑slick streets where neon flickers.

From beast to bark, from case to carriage,
the trunk is a vessel—strong, humble, endless—
holding life’s weight, its thirst, its stories,
and carrying them forward, one steady stride.