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Miss Flotsam was my reception teacher.She had travelled the world.Brown hair turned goldenunder distant suns,clothes carrying coloursfrom countless corners of continents.
There is a place (believe me,
she said) where if, if
It is midnight in the ice rinkAnd all is cool and still.Darkness seems to hold its breathNothing moves, until
I spied a small lonely boy.I was his beautiful red balloon,from morning through to noon,