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Five children clasping mittenscould not hug the entire trunk.Whole hands could hide in the folds of its bark.James, the tallest boy in class,could sit on a root,
Miss Flotsam was my reception teacher.She had travelled the world.Brown hair turned goldenunder distant suns,clothes carrying coloursfrom countless corners of continents.
The light through the blind is a poem,
the way it illuminates air.
And the shadows that fall
on the floor and the wall
are signs that a poem is there.