Like Kipling's 'Just So Stories', but briefly, this poem asks Why? two of our favourite African animals evolved as they did. The poem also aims to evoke magical misty landscapes, and be satisfyingly 'poetic'.

REACHING

Dawn lies golden over the grassland.
Out-stretched shadows welcome the days.
Massed in the mist of the waking land,
Animals float in the pearly haze.

Like islands, wreathed in wispy silver,
Clumps of trees reach for the sky.
Roots drink deep while water’s still there.
Juicy foliage tempts on high.

Graceful giraffe and hefty elephant
Shared one problem: how to reach;
Find solutions, clumsy or elegant;
High and wide, grasp food for each.

Across the swaying, sunlit grassland,
Giraffes in patchwork, camouflage stains;
Browsing, gossiping, there they stand,
Necks erect like working cranes.

Elephant grunts as it humps and heaves,
Lumbering grey like a walking boulder;
Coiling trunk among the leaves;
Throwing the remnants over his shoulder.

Green retreats from the dry savannah.
Rains are over. Brown returns.
Herds move on, in the age-old manner.
Hot air dances. Empty noon-day burns.

Trees still proffer their deep-drunk greenness.
Animals browse in the welcome shade,
Following slowly. Waters may stream less
But nature’s stratagems are still well-laid.

Trunks and necks among the branches
Extend the reach of nature’s chances.

Here is a new story from the ALL CREATURES FESTIVAL. If you want to remember what raccoons are like, watch them on Utube.

NEW OFFICE STAFF

Cicero the secretary bird had run the festival office for as long as anyone could remember. His black and white feathers looked neat and tidy, and very efficient. Computers were a doddle to him, tapping away with all his claws and his beak. "Black and white," was his slogan, "get it down in black and white."

Now that the All Creatures festival was growing bigger every year, Cicero persuaded the management to advertise for more staff. They were thrilled with the list of applicants: parrots, cockatoos, finches. "Some new friends for you, Cicero," said the management team: "a bit of colour and life in the office." Cicero glared at them. "Colour!" he grumbled: "what's wrong with smart black and white. You'll pay extra for colour."

Interview day arrived, and several birds arrived for interviews, all smartly combed and carrying their cvs. The parrots talked well enough, but didn't listen to the questions so didn't give sensible answers. They kept forgetting what they had said, and saying the same things over and over again. "Have a nice day, have a nice day. Has that kettle boiled? Make the tea, make the tea." Management were glad when the parrots' turn was over.

In the outer office, the cockatoo had darkened the computer screen so that he could talk to his reflection, chattering and bowing and pecking the screen. It was obvious he would never do any work, so the interviewers wasted no time, and the cockatoo was quickly on his way home.

The two finches did their best, but they were too small to reach all the keyboard without fluttering around all the time. Papers got blown onto the floor or across the wrong piles. Cicero was beside himself with worry at the confusion. Management tactfully told the finches they might find them a more specialist role, working with tickets.

At last they all took a break outside, to stretch their shoulders and get some fresh air. The bin was full of black and white fur. "Hey, Cicero," they asked, "has someone dumped a fur coat?" The fur shook itself and a black nose poked out, followed by two bright eyes. "Can't a fellow get some sleep?" asked the voice. The eyes closed and the nose snuggled back into the fur.

But Cicero had noticed the colour-scheme: black and white, the practical colour-scheme everyone can trust. The management team went back inside for cups of tea, discussing what to do next. Should they advertise again?

Cicero stood beside the bin. After a while, one eye opened among the fur. "Hello," said Cicero, "Have you been here before?" Without waiting for an answer he produced two biscuits, held one out to the bundle of fur, and started to nibble the other. A black and white furry hand emerged from the heap and reached for the biscuit. Cicero stepped further away. "Come on out," he said, "and let's meet properly." The furry bundle jumped out of the bin and pattered across to Cicero. "Stand and deliver," it demanded, posing like a highwayman, arm outstretched. Cicero smiled at the comical face, striped with black fur like a burglar's mask, - a raccoon!

"How long have you been in our bin?" asked Cicero, handing over the biscuit. The raccoon shuffled its feet. "Nothing wrong with your bin," it said, "Lovely place to live."

"Come on; the truth now," insisted Cicero. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" The raccoon hung its head: "My name's Ringo," he said. "My dad put my computer in the skip because he said I was wasting all my time playing games. The skip was too high to jump into, and anyway, it got taken away before I could prevent it; so I thought, 'I bet there are other computers out there, dumped in skips and bins,' so I left home and I've been looking ever since." Ringo looked wistfully at the office window. "I stayed here all week," it said. "You all seem so friendly." Cicero guessed how lonely it was feeling. "Come on in," he said; "Cup of tea, and we'll give you a test on the computer."

Ringo was brilliant on the computer. Cicero hoped he had found the assistant he needed. "Black and white," he thought, "but am I sure I can trust it?" Out loud he said: "Congratulations: you got top marks in every skills test." He gave Ringo an apple. The raccoon munched hungrily. "Now you must go home to tell your parents you are all right. I bet they are worried. I will ring them up to check you are who you say you are, and if everything is alright, you can start work next week."

Ringo's parents had been desperate for news. They were thrilled to see him, and to learn he was getting a job in IT. Ringo was back at the festival office ten days later, with his black and white fur all combed and tidy, ready to start work.

MESSAGE: Stick to your standards, and trust your instincts.

KANGAROOS

What is the answer for a semi-arid wilderness –
Not desert! Not simple desert!
Brushwood and waterholes, scattered in the emptiness:
Reach it? How can we reach it?

A tempting train of sustenance to criss-cross the wilderness:
Islands! Like islands in the dry!
With green on the horizon, gasp across the emptiness;
But distance! A quadruped can’t fly!

And so the quadruped became a cinqÜeped,
And of that cinq, uses only three:
Boing! across the empty miles; Boing! till supper; Boing! till bed;
Spacehopper laps the emptiness; spacehopper, hopping free.

Tail, like a spring, maintains the bouncing impetus;
Back legs keep the rhythm, on and on:
Old Man Kangaroo, king of the spaced-out wilderness;
Friendly family groups, seen and gone.

What about youngsters in the semi-arid wilderness?
Short legs slow you down, die of thirst!
Hoist them in your pocket as you bounce across the emptiness.
Put them down, when you’ve covered the worst.

No dramatic patterns in the dusty, gritty wilderness:
Sandy fawn or khaki, camouflage!
Space-hoppers and their hitch-hikers fade into the emptiness.
Boing! With tails and pockets, we’re in charge!

SNAKES

Slither: does it say everything?
Encapsulate the snake experience?
Conjure up a slippery way of life?
Muscular smoothness: glide and cling,
Wind and twist, or weave a waving dance,
Or vanish through the leafmould like a knife.

In speed and silence: Gone!
And leaves a gap – but no gap! – Was it there?
Still as a photograph. No movement! None!
The eery glide vanished in thin air.

But when the chill slows the lonely slither:
Clinging closeness of the hibernating heap
In sibling comfort. Above, the leaves wither;
Contented tangle of the winter sleep.

THE CATERPILLAR

"Bottom of the food-chain! What do you mean?"
Complaint comes crawling out of the green.
Truly invisible, unseen in the scenery,
Juicy gobbler round juicy greenery.
"If we were the bottom, we'd have nothing to eat.
Leaves forever! Just use your feet!"
Apple or oaktree, rowan or beech,
Thousands of gobblers lunching on each.
Spring-green or silver, tooth-edged or plain,
Each has its specialist: Munch! Sun or rain.
Mouth purpose-built for endless consumption
"What else is a face for? Use your gumption!
More muscles than you, as I twizzle and loop:
Two hundred, controlling each stretch and stoop.
Of course I've a brain! With all this to keep sorted:
Feet, hook-feet and cushions, all segments co-ordinated.
We're proud of our place! Foundation position;
Unheard, unnoticed; vegetation animation!"

LETTER HOME

Fortunata, the eldest of the young octopi, chewed her pen thoughtfully. Octopi know all about ink, but waterproof paper is never successful. Ordinary paper would have to do. She would get it laminated at the Post Office.

Dear Mum and Dad,
wrote Fortunata,
I hope you are both safe, and keeping nice and wet during this hot weather. Granny took us to the festival. In the craft area we learnt weaving and crochet. Elvis crocheted Elvira into a knot and we didn't find her till bed-time. Granny threatened to turn Elvis into a permanent knot when Granda arrives. Meanwhile she put him in disgrace. - I'm not sure where it is, but they don't have ice-cream. - While Elvis was in disgrace, a sound-man thought he was some spare cable, so he rolled him up tidily and put him in the spares box. Another technician got him out and connected him up. Then the lights blew and burnt a hole in the big marquee. Elvis fell out of the ceiling with a sizzling noise. He's getting better but he says he has a headache. His eyes twirl and his tentacles sparkle, with blue light dancing along them. Granda says he's lucky. If he misbehaves again, Granda says he'll stuff him in a glass tube and use him for ink.

Fortunata paused. What else was happening? Family news always seemed to be about Elvis and his latest mischief. Would the day ever come when Elvira's exploits would cause family consternation?

Moral: There's an Elvis in every family, but watch out for the Elviras.

QUADRUPEDS

“Quadruped:” What does it mean?
Thunder of hooves across the plains;
Cowboy herds or cossack hordes;
Speed and freedom and flying manes.

Or, slowly through the shadows,
The sloth slung among the vines,
Hung happily in forest stillness,
Toes tight round the looping lines.

Splashing bears go scooping salmon.
Hopping rabbits fill the dusk.
Ghostly squirrels float like thistledown.
Ponderous elephant sharpens a tusk.

Kangaroo, leaping long-distance;
Tortoise in armour knows its place;
Skulking wolf or scrambling gibbon:
Different lifestyles, different pace.

Prowling low or swinging high:
Four-footed variety, from sea to sky.

A few weeks ago I went to the WOMAD festival, and came home with a head full of stories. Here is one.

SHIMBO'S FIRST GIG

Shimbo the white elephant lay quietly in the shade. His mum had wanted to spray him with suncream again today, but he was fed up with feeling so sticky and melty. "It makes me feel like a peanut butter sandwich," he grumbled, "turned inside out." While she wasn't looking he sneaked away under the trees.

Behind the trees, in the big marquee, the Trunkophones were finishing their soundcheck. A dozen grey and dark-grey elephants raised and lowered, curled and uncurled their trunks, with sounds varying from trombone to saxophone, and even deep echoes of tuba. This year's experiment sounded quite successful. The gamble of mixing Asian and African elephants was resulting in harmonies that wowed every festival. Shimbo rose to his knees and lifted his trunk, copying the big elephants, but producing only thin reedy notes. He longed for the majesty of the big bass elephants. His notes sounded so squeaky and silly.

Two chimpanzees swung away through the trees, chattering. Soon they were back, with a big, excited-looking gorilla, followed closely by Shimbo's mum. Shimbo wasn't sure whether to be glad or sorry: was his mum looking mostly proud or mostly worried?

"Are you Shimbo?" asked the gorilla. "Will you play that again?" "The tune you were playing," explained the chimps. "Do it again please." Embarrassed, Shimbo wriggled his trunk nervously and managed a short warble. "Amazing!" said the gorilla. He turned to Shimbo's mum:"Has he had lessons?" he asked. "No," she replied. "He's always made noises like that." "Amazing," said the gorilla again. "Listen, we'll sort out a formal contract tomorrow, but this afternoon can he come on as a guest artist in one or two numbers, perhaps three?"

Moral: Our families take our talents for granted.

SIXTH DAY

The sea, the sky, and now, dry land to fill
With life that walks or jumps or crawls or swings:

Skin, or fur, or scales,
Hooves, or claws, or nails,
Grasping paws, or waving tails:
Wherever the opportunity, life clings.

Food and fun and cuddles,
Strength, excitement, muddles,
Hunting games and happy huddles;
Courtship, family life:
All, achievement brings.