Down the isles of wooden trestles
Set out in a quietly painted hall
The children look for the familiar.
Things, lost, things from loved sets
Pieces remembered and missed.
Clutching small change and a bag
They roam, searching the emptying
Surfaces in the hope of recovering.

Some children are selective buying little
Only the important objects that inspire
An unusual fossil, book on ammonites.
A collection of perfect My Little Ponies.
Then the scrambler children who stuff bags
To overflowing with excited assortments
Picked almost at random for a chance
Their to be explored strewn across kitchen
Table with an audience of friends.

There was always a late arrival just as doors
Were about to close and tea hatch latched.
As crowds diminished, looking became easier
Finding that magic dropped on the floor.

Love Mary x