This is a new poem written about an encounter between myself and a fox on a cold snowy night in Lausanne. It was magical seeing this beautiful animal watching me by the light of a city street lamp. 

I am a small boy that much is true They say I’m mischievous. Do you think so too?
A mischievous boy - am I really or not? What does the word mean? I hear it A LOT!
This very big word that some people say. It’s one that I hear almost every day,
whenever I go to climb up a tree to try and search for that fat bumblebee,
or go to the garden to find a green frog who’s ribbeting, robbeting under a log.
‘He’s up to something’, says my sister. Then Mum says ‘Now just remember mister,
DO NOT put that bumblebee onto a spoon and shoot with your slingshot the bee to the moon,
for though you may think he knows how to fly  he’s not really built to fly up so high.’
‘DO NOT bring the frog from outside to in to stare at me out of the biscuit tin,
for though you may think he likes TimTams the best, he really likes flies and insects and pests.’
And while both my mother and sister stare, I shake my head, ‘No never – I swear!’
I don't understand how they would think I’d do such strange things. I stand and blink,
with eyes all wide and innocent, then, I find in my pocket my ballpoint pen,
and decide then and there that I should write, what a good boy I am. That I'd NEVER invite
a frog to come into my mum's biscuit tin to eat all the Timtams – who’d do such a thing!
I NEVER would try to shoot to the moon that fat bumblebee with a slingshot and spoon!
I look from my note as I finish and see my mother and sister smiling at me.
“He's got that mischievous look in his eye”, they say as they wink at each other and sigh.
Later that night as I go to my sleep, I keep one eye open and see mother peep
her head round my door and blow me a kiss. ‘Sleep well and sweet dreams and always know this -
you are much loved and bring us such joy, and really you are a good little boy’.
I am a small boy - that much you knew. I’m a little mischievous. Yes that is true!
But one thing I know I will never feel blue, because I'm much loved and I hope you are too! ​

One partridge in a pear tree is a lonesome sight to see,
and though the bird can fly away he sits and stares at me.
He watches as I sing about the twelve fine days to come
but as the song continues, the sadder he becomes.
 
He twists his head from side to side, blinking small black eyes.
Then he chirps, ‘Don’t sing that song. Please don’t make me cry!’
He ruffles bright red feathers from his head down to his toes,
pruning each one carefully, tweeting as he goes.
 
Once he’s done he stands up straight and sighs a mournful sigh.
His beak begins to quiver and a tear forms in his eye.
He starts to tell a tale that’s full of misery and woe,
of sorrow and of heartbreak, as he paces to and fro.
 
‘You’ve no idea how hard it is to see the doves and hens
all kissing and canoodling. It seems to never end!
Then there are the calling birds, the geese and all the swans!
They prance and swim and lay their eggs and proudly sing that song.
 
And do not get me started on the lords and maids and ladies
The pipers and the drummers wake up all the sleeping babies!’
I listen as he tells me of his wish for just one thing -
to find another partridge who will make his sad heart sing.
​
I ask him to come closer, wipe away his tear and say,
‘No need to be alone for look who flew in yesterday!’
He turns his head to where I point, his eyes full of surprise.
His little heart now bursts with hope and to her side he flies.
 
He hops a little closer, pecks her gently with his beak.
She fluffs her wings and then she lays her head upon his cheek.
Together with their heads entwined, the future’s bright and fair.
No longer lonely but instead a perfect partridge pair!

In response to the Australian Children's Poetry picture prompt #4

Whilst on a recent holiday to Con Son island off the southern coast of Vietnam, I was struck not just by the remote beauty of the place, but also by it's history. The white sandy beaches and clear waters belie it's cruel past. It was used as one of the most feared places of incarceration in the region by the French from the 1800's, and also by the Americans during the Vietnam War. The aptly named 'tiger cages' are still there, and for many Vietnamese, these prisons are places for sombre remembrance and full of ghosts. . .

I’m stuck
Not because I don’t have anything to think about
But because my head is full
And I don’t know which idea to choose
To focus on. To tease out. Make bigger
Into what, I haven’t yet figured out
Tired. And stuck
Thoughts about ghosts both past and present
Thoughts about the planet and how much I want to see a future
Thoughts about my family and how much I miss them and can’t wait to see them
Sad. And stuck
There it is again. That word.
Some days are blue sky days where ideas and feelings soar and my hands fly across the keyboard
Some days are black cloud days where my ideas and feelings lay in a dark sticky tar
My hands hover for hours waiting to pluck the ideas from the mire
I know I have to experience both to realise what the other is
But on black cloud days it’s hard to create honey from tar
I look out of the window in my apartment on a world that seems so busy and noisy
As I observe that world my mind starts to quiet
Thoughts slowly begin to unravel
Jumbled scenes become a recognizable thread
Tar is not honey. Not yet.
But there is something. A beginning.
Not so stuck anymore. 

Clouds roll in from the south.
Dragon shapes, bear shapes.
White oxen,
reaching far up into the sky

Building steadily, grander, higher
So many of them.
Shapes casually merging
into a great stretch of darkening grey

Wind blows gentle at first.
Then stronger, harder,
pushing faster.
It moans through the metal door frames

Thunder rumbles far away
But not for long
Here it comes, closer.
Sonorous and full.

Vivid flashes of lightning
illuminate the sky
Scattered. Crooked.
Crackling. Sharp.

Then the first droplets. Spit. Spat.
Until there's too many to count
Falling harder, faster.
Pinging off the metal balcony railings.

Clouds, wind, thunder, lighting, rain - the sky as one. 
A discordant symphony of sound and light. 
Exhilarating. Fierce, Life-giving. 
Monsoon.