Thursday, 12 August 2010


The floor’s been landscaped by a baby
And trying to decipher its arrangement
Will likely strain your patience:

Soft toys tussle with the tassels of a rug
And have been imprisoned in a ring
Of building blocks thicker than bricks,

Whose vivid colours clash with a mat
That resembles flattened grass and has
Been battered by a xylophone dragon;

A tree barked leather chair has been stacked
With last weeks charity shop haul
That is threatening to fall on his head,

As sundry items of out grown clothes
Compete with recently bought statements
Of fashion’s waste of time.

A climbing frame has been made
Out of a mobile and a travel cot
That he still hasn’t got the hang of it,

And an overturned turtle is being used to scale
What furniture cannot be removed to
The safety of an eye line’s height,

And as night creeps over the scene
Long forgotten battery drained robots
Stand rigidly attendant in the corners

While the gardener starts to weary and,
Fearing he’ll disappear amidst the moss,
Is tossed over a shoulder and set in his own bed.

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