Crudely pinned, the walls all wear

Dozens of paintings; on the floor

In stripy dress a silent bear

Stares at the ceiling. By the door

A paper fish, large, hung on string

Brightly stripped and spotted spins

In the draught. And everything

Jumbled and coloured, now begins

To mourn the absence of that pair

They are not there!

The askew books, the bric-a-brac

The myriad dolls that sit on shelves

Ask, “When are those two coming back?

For we are nothing by ourselves”

Panda’s poorly, Humpty in distress,

The scattered farmyard wants attention

Each doll’s house needs its dear mistress

The nursery world wants re-invention.

So easy to say, they give dolls life

By magic of imagination

As we give them (myself, my wife)

In the mystery of generation

False conceit. Each toy, each doll

Feeds the soul-mind of the child

And takes a mini-Makers role

Great to tiny reconciled

And how the counterpart is true!

Our souls our girls with being imbue