Stars in Jars (14 page)

The smell of mincemeat

on the stairs,

a queue of Year 2 waiting

to be shot by flashbulbs,

the stack and curve of

grey plastic chairs,

a gold bell chiming

the end of play-time,

pencil shavings curling

down the throat of the bin.

Freya's feet were very small,

in fact she usually wore tied-up leaves,

but since it was nearly winter,

she bought herself some shoes.

The shoes were black, the shoes were shiny,

they strapped across her feet,

the heels were strong and clicked along,

the buckles very neat.

When she put them on and sang a song

she rose up in the air,

feet first she flew with a swishing sound

followed by her hair.

She landed on a treetop,

overlooking a glistening lake,

when she flew again she landed

in her best friend's birthday cake.

A third flight proved quite dangerous,

she flew right across the sea

and landed in a fishing boat,

on the fisherman's knobbly knee.

By this time she was exhausted,

it was nearly time to sleep,

so she flew right under her duvet,

where her dozy sleep was deep.

Iris Upsidaisy has corkscrew curls,

they're corn-yellow spinning coils,

they twist and they whirl.

They twist around the library,

they twist along the street,

they twirl up lamp posts

and round the shoppers' feet.

They whirl along telegraph wires

and up the traffic lights,

they curl around chestnut trees

on cold and windy nights.

They spin along her forehead,

they bounce up and down,

they shake when she laughs out loud,

they hide a puzzled frown.

When her curls are resting

on her pillow while she sleeps,

they straighten out and stretch themselves

then lie around in heaps.

Iris wakes in the morning

and her curls curl up again,

they dance with glee for all to see –

her jitterbugging mane!

The jitterbug: a fast dance performed to swing music, popular in the 1940s

Gulls chance the churning sea,

Leaves stack up against the thermal door,

Tips of willows, russet, finger low grey sky,

The year is drawing in.

Old man's beard billows by the road,

A net of mist hangs over Swanbourne Lake,

Rosehips thrust from scratchy hedgerows,

The year is turning in.

Elastic Band

Boy collects

elastic bands,

he spins after

postmen, picks

up their throw-

aways then

threads them

down the stem

of his scooter.

He has over

three hundred

bands threaded

on his scooter.

He's thinking

of melting

them down

and making

them into a

huge tyre to put

on his bicycle.

When he gets one.

for Suze

How dark is the morning,

how dark is the day,

will the sun shoulder

the darkness away?

The cars shine their headlights

at lunch-time,

the dawn stays the same

until dusk, snow sits –

tall hats on the seedheads,

an afternoon dew takes a rest.

How dark is the evening,

how dark is the day,

will the sun soon

shiver the darkness away?

At the end of the last match of the season

there were four front teeth

poking out of the pitch,

two players had one arm each in a sling,

and there were possibly three little toes broken –

all on left feet.

Five sets of parents were hoarse from shouting

and couldn't go to work the next day.

Seven grans had hypothermia,

despite being wrapped in twelve tartan rugs.

Three little sisters have very snotty colds.

Everybody is dying for the next season to begin.

She doesn't know the World Cup has started,

that Ginger Spice has left The Girls,

that Barbie Doll has got a boyfriend,

that bootlegs are the pair of pants to wear in town.

She knows her ants from her woodlice,

she knows when a frost has hit the ground,

she knows that moss shines lime in moonlight,

she knows that moths don't leave a sound.

I kneel up on our high-backed chair,

stretch my arms towards the sky,

pull the lever on the arm,

and at precisely a quarter to three

I am shot into the air.

Lakes soon become diamonds,

continents are omelettes,

the seas are just a squish of blue.

Space is layered with velvet,

the stars greet me,

the harvest moon smiles from ear to ear.

I land on Planet Nothing,

where there are no craters,

no creatures, no sparkling rocks,

and certainly no toy shops.

I cannot see a froth of cloud,

I cannot hear a phrase of music,

I cannot smell popcorn.

My journey home is double quick,

the carpet feels cosy beneath my icy feet.

Cherub Bob was a slob,

he wiped his nose

on his sleeve.

He left his feathers out

in all kinds of weathers,

till they got a horrid disease.

Now Bob is more careful,

he uses cloud tissue

and spreads his wings

under trees, to dry in the sun

and when he has done,

he jumps off his golden trapeze.