In the paper today, for light relief,
was a picture of a truck impaled on the horns of a rhinoceros.
The prehistoric and the present had both died
locked together, overturned on their side.
A perfect example of the practical brought down by the preposterous.
For a little while it was my belief
that love is just like that: an emotional blast
which forces good sense straight into the past.
But I was wrong.
To pass from hidden, normal and slow
to love’s delirium, forefront and fast,
you have to be ready to chance and to go.
And yes, we anthropomorphists of considerable heft,
think of the rhino as dumb and bereft!
Timing, or station, or insight surpassed,
or boredom, or loneliness, or pity carelessly cast,
poison well-being and damage our pride.
Which reveals, as it has in the past,
that despite our bravado, never denied,
We do not possess a rhino’s hide.
The rhino runs in dead straight lines,
he never curves as he proceeds through the mire.
All too often, we thinkers refined,
backtrack or swerve from our stated desire,
to end on the horns of a dilemma.
But the rhino, who never thinks as he runs,
…. hardly ever.
And so we, pompous and clever,
Fall often from grace,
Believing, as we pitch into space,
That we are the centre of Creation's endeavour.