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Fire under footfall.Fire over skies.
Fire on a matchstick.Fire in my eyes.
Fire holding hunger.Fire seeking wood.
Fire hiding danger.Fire feeling good.
I like to stay upand listenwhen big people talkingjumbie stories
I does feelso tingly and excitedinside me
But when my mother say“Girl, time for bed”
A little bit of rice,a little bit of pea,on my platefor my tea.
A little bit of jam,a little bit of toast,in the morningswhen I love it most.
The living room remembers Gran dancing to Count Bessie.The kitchen can still hear my aunts fighting on Christmas Day.The hall is worried about the loose banister.
We goin' on a school trip today,De whole class goin' to Whitney Bay,Ah teckin' me ball an' bat with meTo play beach cricket, an' let me see,
Back at school tomorrow.
Not tomorrow!One more day off please.I'm sick.I'm not ready.I haven't done my homework.
She didn’t call for me as she usually does.I shared my crisps with someone else.
I sat with someone else in assembly.She gave me a funny look coming out.
My love is like a well-read bookwhich makes me smile each time I look.It shouts and whispers, roars and singsit grounds me and it gives me wings.
Tell me, Mama,Where does the sun come fromin the morning?
Where does it go towhen it reaches the edge of the field?
A poem is not an Antbut it can be quite short.A poem is not a Bananabut there may be something under its skin.A poem is not a Coat