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Poem

When I was a child and my dreams were of gold
I always believed everything I was told,
my faith was implicit, my innocence pure
and magic existed, of that I was sure.

My old uncle Arthur was always in bed
his twinkling eyes sunken into his head,
he told me his stories of dragons and elves
that lived in the books on his library shelves.

On the table that stood at the foot of his bed
was an old leather box coloured purple and red,
and the lid was embroidered in threads of maroon
with the soft shining face of the man in the moon.

I asked him to show me what rested inside
and he said " Press the button, and open it wide!",
then up from the box with a deep whirring sigh
rose a magic mechanical gold butterfly.

It fluttered its wings as it gently spun round
Its beauty serene in the absence of sound,
and I was entranced by its magical flight
as it bathed in the flame of the candle's soft light.

As I lay in my bed with my head in a dream
I still could imagine the butterfly's gleam,
so I made up my mind to go back the next day
to watch the gold butterfly flutter and play.

But when I got there, the old house was in gloom
my old uncle Arthur was gone from his room,
and even though mother had tried to explain
I never did see uncle Arthur again.

That night I slept soundly, in dreams of delight
at the dawn I awoke to the morning's first light,
and there on the desk, by the side of my bed
was an old leather box coloured purple and red...

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