They blossom in her fist losing more than she collects.
I take the ribbon from her hair tie them tightly in place.
"I have a garden in my hand!"
She runs and runs and runs as only a little girl can
joy and speed fused together in her.
And when she returns her petals have all gone.
She holds only stalks in her hand
"Shhhhh!" I shush her sobbing. "Look what you have found!"
And I let perspective take a hand/
On each stalk now a sheep replaces petals.
The sheep unaware that they have become surreal flowers
only existing at a certain angle.
Who cares if they are not real. It's the seeing that matters.
She holds a posey of sheep.
I tell her they are flowers made of magic.
On the far away hillside sheep still safely graze.
And when she moves and finds them "GONE!"
I reposition her and there they are.
"Hold still!" I tell her and pick each sheep
pocket them mind them for her.
Happy once again she runs and runs and runs
clutching her precious stalks in a tiny hand.
All her imaginary sheep tucked up in her mind
possibly for ever if not
We had made our way down to Derrible Bay on the island of Sark and I ventured briefly into the coldness that was the sea. I had left my watch on some rocks and this was returned to me by a very nice lady whose husband was swimming back and forth across the bay( I had only gone for ye gentle swim and splash-about )and when this picture of health emerged from mastering the sea he came towards us for yea he was the watch-returning lady's husband who it turned out was vastly interested in poetry and so we talked for two hours about the wonders of words. I told him the poem I had in my head to write which was as yet unwritten but now weeks later it has emerged from its underwatery world and stepped into its very own words.