The sun was blood red, looked like a big wound
on the flank of an elephant shot by poachers.
It dripped blood on white, woolly clouds which
slowly turned red as the bandage on a fatally
shot soldier who slowly died as his eyes turned
into a mirror of the cold sky. In the town, air is
torn into puffs of powder as a red ambulance
comes to an abrupt halt, a man on a dirty floor
surrounded by presents for his family, his eyes
reflect the absurdity of a Christmas decorated
supermarket - his widow will be handed his gifts.
As I drive home, a bag of night opens and strews
its soothing darkness over the land, but nearby
an anguished elephant still trumpets.