037

“Puddles and mud and tiny bird footprints,

silt dusted leaves and ripples of sunlight.”

The poet felt his poetry muscles growing warm.

His daughter waited until he turned to dig out a pencil and paper before splashing through his inspiration in her red rubber boots. She smiled up at him as his eyebrows shot skywards. “You comin’ in?” she asked.

He could not deny the temptation. “Maybe I should write children’s books instead,” he said, and hopped right in.

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