My book has a great story.
Mummy isn't sure that it's real but I know it is.
The rabbit talks and is friendly and nice
and goes on an adventure through the woods
with his friend the butterfly with lovely rings and patterns all over her wings.
And they meet all their woodland friends
and learn a little dance -that I can do-
and perform it to all their friends.
I don't get what Mummy doesn't believe in.
But where is my book?
Not that I need it because I know all of the words
and I can picture all of the pictures in my head.
But I want my book back.
Now it's getting late and Mummy says it's time to sleep.
And I look outside and it's dark.
And the night is young
and roams the streets looking for a friend
to kick a ball about with.
But a few hours pass and the night grows up quickly.
It sticks around and witnesses the laughs and lives of others
but as it watches the campfire fizzle
with flowering sparks from the wood
and the flickering ashes of young life burning away,
there is the tweet against the chitter and chatter of animals.
Children telling old tales.
But not my story.
So the night fades away with the embers of the fire
because it is afraid of facing the day.