Miss Flotsam was my reception teacher.
She had travelled the world.
Brown hair turned golden
under distant suns,
clothes carrying colours

I was born with a map of Australia on my face;
it was beautiful, my mother told me – 
there was nobody like me in the whole wide world
who could trace the edges of down under

The night was as dark as an ink well,
For the moon had gone visiting elsewhere,
But by the scuffling sounds around me,
I knew there was someone there.

I spied a small lonely boy.
I was his beautiful red balloon,
from morning through to noon,