I’m a sucker for a really good book,
I am not someone who can just take one look.
I am that person who spends hour after hour,
Buried in print, it’s just a medium I devour!
A library is an Aladdin’s Cave to me,
Full of tradition, of culture, and history,
Full of laughter and sorrow, and humour and wit,
Of plays and of novels, of the latest big ‘hit’.
I love a good carrell in which I can sit,
And scan the great work to which I’ve thought to commit.

There is no if or maybe,
About whether I sit for hours,
I’m called the garden baby,
Because I love smelling flowers.
I dig my feet deep in the earth,
Have soil between my toes,
To get my serious penny’s worth,
Of the perfume of a rose.
Oh, I’m the garden baby,
Of that there is no doubt,
No ifs, no buts no maybe,
A horticulturalist inside out!

Lie still, my dear,
This kind of art,
Requires a steady hand.
My intention’s very clear,
I use my heart,
And all the skill at my command.
I’ll paint you with a tiger print,
To give your purr a roar,
And all your foes will get the hint,
And bother you no more.
Lie still my dear,
My brushes are,
Spokesmen for my craft,
These strokes breed fear,
In near and far,
And breathe a sure witchcraft.

I took a small step forwards,
And the sand fell down the hill,
So to prevent more slippage,
I’m standing very still.
This place is lacking colour,
The sky and sand’s the same,
It’s barren and it’s desolate,
This landscape has no name….

I’m not sure where the sofa ends,
Or where your body starts,
The truth is we’re connected,
By a meeting of our hearts
,
You are my protector,
You’re my leading light,
You greet me in the morning,
You’re at my side at night.

You and me are buddies,
You’re my bestest friend,
Our mutual trust’s enormous,
Our love will never end.

There’s nothing like a puddle of glorious mud,
To make our young hearts sing with joy!
There simply isn’t a place or a thing,
More fun for a small, rambunctious boy!
It’s cool, it’s wet, it’s a glorious mess,
It’s a given we’re going to indulge!
But if you think we will tell you this mud pool ‘s address’,’
It’s something we’ll never divulge

I know I’m always impatient at this time of day,
But I love it when she gets home.
I look out till I see her come around the corner,
And into our street.
The determined swing of her arms.
Her quick feet on the pavement,
The tune she hums as she walks.
She tells me it’s her favourite time of day,
Her “me and you” time.
Our “us” time,
When we cook together,
Laugh together,
Tell each other about our day.
And then bed,
And a chapter of the latest book
We’ve chosen to read.
I love it at this time of day,
…when my mother gets home.

OK! So I’m embarrassed!
But please understand,
I was just playing slightly,
And things got out of hand.
With one tiny wriggle,
The blind just kind of slips,
And before I quite know it,
I’m strung up by my tum and my hips!
I know I look pathetic,
But I’m very sore,
So please just unravel me,
I’ll mess around no more!

Why did you choose your body paint?
D’you seek approval or complaint?
Is it adornment or just tat?
What makes you want to look like that?
A symphony in black and white?
To criticise you would be impolite!,
Each stroke is loose and yet exact,
Both detailed and a tad abstract.
I really can’t make up my mind,
If this is art or if I find,
That you intend to jolt and shock,
With this, your personal ‘writer’s block’.

Originally shared by David Treadway

Our river is our lifeblood,
It’s here we bathe and often drink,
It’s where we go to wash our clothes,
It is a giant sink.
We try to build our towns close by,
So we gain from its largesse,
But some of us walk for mile on mile,
Just to clean a dress.
The river’s flow is strong and hard,
It weathers any drought,
So it is our perfect treasure,
Of that there is no doubt.