Nightwalking
Piles of elephant dung
steamed in headlights
as I drove through
silent London streets.
I thought of Africa,
the golden butterflies
swarming over warm
droppings, and pansy
butterflies, yellow
and purple, a handful
of flung confetti,
and the dung-beetles
juggling their loot,
and I drove around
the huge, unlikely
heaps and came upon,
like in a dream,
a procession of
elephants tip-toeing
along a sleeping street.
Whose bed I had come
from I forget,
but not elephants
nightwalking in London.
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