We make our way
To Banana Chip Bay
With faces of funeral glee.
And we watch cotton buds
In soft soapy suds
Bounce in a Handkerchief Sea.

We rest by the rock
Where the Fudge Fish flock
To the Wanderer’s billowing gown.
In darkness we linger
As he rubs one long finger
On a swiftly softening frown.

All present gaze south
When he opens his mouth
To let out a strange sort of note.
It could be called whimsical –
Certainly flimsical –
That warble from the Wanderer’s throat.

Then from a far primrose place
Springs a long line of lace
Made of billowing buttercup mist.
It leaps from the east
In the shape of a Beast
With heads I would dare not to list.

Before it did fly,
With a sudden goodbye,
An ink stain of recurring refrain.
And it flew in disgrace
Due to losing the chase
To the newly formed, newly warmed chain.

As the lace forms an eye,
And stares down from the sky,
We depart from Banana Chip Bay.
Our sadness now sated
We hastily debated
What to do with the oncoming day.

—
to Becci (aged 6) from Uncle Dom (aged 21)
—
Illustration courtesy of, and copyright, Darren Woodcock. Follow him on Twitter.