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I feel it, first as a stir,turning deep in the murky water.Surfaces up for air, a twitchon the lake in my head.A flip, and it disappears.
Miss Flotsam was my reception teacher.She had travelled the world.Brown hair turned goldenunder distant suns,clothes carrying coloursfrom countless corners of continents.
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 worldwho could trace the edges of down under
Spring is baby,bright, fresh and new,gurgling with the melting snow,singing with the first cuckoo.
The moon was married last nightand nobody saw,dressed up in her ghostly dressfor the summer ball.
We don' have a Springtime like some folkWho live in dem colder place,but we have a time when de soft rain come,an' tease open de seedcaseo' de poincianna and de trumpet tree,
I spied a small lonely boy.I was his beautiful red balloon,from morning through to noon,