First, months

of flash, thud, shudder,

then the wailing...

                            Months,

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 Maama
Good 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 cockroaches
and 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 trees
And 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 ship
as swift as if they'd sighted home
and every sailor felt the grip