Don’t tell me elephants can’t dance

by Kate Sealey-Rahman

The elephant that sat, unmentioned, in the far
corner of my uncle’s living room,
was not grey, or white (as these creatures sometimes are),

it did not brood – fogging up the windows
with thickly exhaled gloom –
rather, it waltzed. On gaily painted toes,

it skirted round the usual chat –
traffic, rain, mumbled enquiries as to
the lodger’s health – then rumbaed back,

until, one afternoon, grown weary with the merry
dance, it stretched its polished trunk straight through
the open door, and waved, in all its rainbow majesty.