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| They went to sea in a sieve |
He would stretch paper
thin and read what to put in,
Since it’s verses he
painted (not face, hands or feet),
Carefully lettering
each word, sort of jumbled, yet neat
And then hanging it up
on a pin.
And if pleased, he’d
retire for an early door’s jar.
To be greeted by
friends with, ‘Hoorah! Here you are!
And the hour is still young!
Are you staying for long?’
‘Not likely,’ says Johnny,
‘that would be quite wrong!
For my poem’s half
painted! My mind’s in a spin!
And my verse will be
worse after more than a few.
Even now as we speak I
should be where I live
To save Jumblies from
drowning in green, gold and blue
By painting the holes
in their sieve.’
Gillian Tarn
July 2012
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