Sign up to our newsletter
of flash, thud, shudder,
then the wailing...
that's half a young cat's life
He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.
Say, Good mornin, Granny MaamaGood mornin, Grandpa Taata.Good mornin when it rainin.Good mornin when sun shinin.Good mornin.
Now we're up on the edge
and over, on the mountain
with mountains beyond. Behind us,
in the dark
of the valley, villages are embers
Tippi can't stand clowns.Dragon is terrified of cockroachesand Mom of mice.Dad pretends to be fearless,though I've seen him flinch when the mail arrives
We're floating into the blue,Me and my blue balloon.Over the rooftops of the town,The brown fields and the treesAnd the Downs – we're floating,
Nobody knows what Jonjo knows. Nobody knows but he,So Jonjo took me for a walk and showed his world to me.
The seagulls are doing their dance again – Wings clasped to their sides, they stare up the street.Up and down, up and down, go their knobbly pink knees;
All you see is outside me: my painted smile,the rosy-posy shell, the fluttery eyes.A butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth-type me
Sirens! The cry went round the shipas swift as if they'd sighted homeand every sailor felt the grip