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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.
Spring is baby,bright, fresh and new,gurgling with the melting snow,singing with the first cuckoo.
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,