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I am in a forest;My brothers will never find me here.Over my head is a green umbrella;I feel the earth under my bare feet.
When they were young,She kept wicket for her brothers,They batted,Bowled,Padded upAnd ratcheted up the score.She crouched behind the stumps
My Gran was a Caribbean ladyAs Caribbean as could beShe came across to visit usIn Shoreham by the sea.
A queen in a palace, slumped on a throne,Surrounded by servants but all alone.Heavy with handshakes, bunches of flowers,jewels, crowns, grinning for hours.
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;
I am a crocodile who lost my smile in the turbulent waters of the Nile.When I was very small, trapped inside my crocodile egg,
Teach me the language of Cat;the slow-motion blink, that crystal stare,a tight-lipped purr and a wide-mouthed hiss.Let me walk with a saunter, nose in the air.
The space is a friend.I tell it what hurts.
I tell it why I'm not good.The space is a friend.I tell it the bother I'm in.It won't let me tell lies.
We turn our faces up and jiggle thirty toes,Morse-coding longing with our restless beat.When will it come?Shepherds on the first Nativity, we scan the skiesand huddle,