In the cold mist before dawn
The lonely lord of the jungle patrols the edge of the forest
Across the river from the village
Where the female elephants are stabled.
His path is well trodden
Each morning
His way takes him within sight of the village,
But he dare not cross the river
Though he easily could
The men would bang and crash and scream and shriek
And drive him away.
He cannot reach his heart’s desire
Although he can smell them
And the smell drives him mad.
He summons all his energy
As he lifts his powerful trunk
And from deep within his lungs
He trumpets a huge, eerie, mournful blast
That reverberates around the village
And echoes far and wide.
This is not the usual elephant trump
Of a blaring, sudden toot –
This is a long-drawn out trumpet
Of intensity and emotion,
Quivering notes,
Like a South-Sea conch shell horn
Magnified a thousand times
A cry of anguish
That sends a chill down one’s spine
And makes the hairs rise on one’s neck.
His trumpet blasts grow louder as he draws near
And he paces up and down the river bank
For nearly an hour.
But his harem does not answer his call.
They are chained or fenced in at their hattisar.
The wild tusker continues blowing his haunting horn
At intervals, like a fog-horn in the jungle ocean
Over the forest and river and village.
What IS this sound that wakes the dead?
A summons? A command? “Come to me!”
A note of authority? A domination of the territory?
It is the real call of the wild
a lament, a sadness
for unfilled desires,
for loneliness;
But the huge elephant continues blowing in hope.
Then, as dawn begins to break
One final, piercing, rolling call
Full of earnest desire –
The notes linger for a time, resonating across the jungle
Then fade slowly away.
The females have not come –
And the tusker ambles on his way
Disappearing through the chill mist
back into the deep forest
for another day.
He may not come tomorrow.
C. Tim Taylor 2016