I Sit In My Tree

Truth And Dreams Are Always Getting Muddled.

When You Grow Up", I Said, "do You Ever Stop Feeling Little And Weak?" "no," She Says. "there's Always A Little Frail And Tiny Thing Inside, No Matter How Grown-up You Are.

She Finds Tales Everywhere, In Grains Of Sand She Picks Up From The Garden, In Puffs Of Smoke That Drift Out From The Chimneys Of The Village, In Fragments Of Smooth Timber Or Glass In The Jetsam. She Will Ask Them, "where Did You Come From? How Did You Get Here?" And They Will Answer Her In Voices Very Like Her Own, But With New Lilts And Squeaks And Splashes In Them That Show They Are Their Own.

This Is Our World. Aye, There's More Than Enough Of Darkness In It. But Over Everything There's All This Joy, Kit. There's All This Lovely, Lovely Light.

Words Should Wander And Meander. They Should Fly Like Owls And Flicker Like Bats And Slip Like Cats. They Should Murmur And Scream And Dance And Sing.