Road Cones

The orange road cones
are the hats of the witches
who live in the gutters,
the grates, and the ditches.

They come out in dozens
whenever it rains
to dance orange dances
in water-filled drains

Andrew P. Wood

Magic Stuff

I'm mixing up a special brew
from stinky socks and dried dog pooh,
sardine cat food, semolina,
boiled cabbage, toilet cleaner,
spiders, spit, and suntan lotion,
and when it's done, this special potion
is absolutely guaranteed –
just one spoonful's all you'll need
to take on something big and shrink it.

But will my older brother drink it?

Fiona Farrell
When the air moves

When the air moves,
it rushes, it whispers, it whooshes, it wheezes
and whines along telephone lines.

When the air moves,
it steals my school notice,
teases the washing on the line,
and blows strange things into our garden.

When the air moves, it makes waves that sprint along the top of the sea, it turns the windmill round, and ties my hair into knots.

When I make the air move, I can whistle a tune, play my recorder, and blow out my birthday candles.

Eva Petro

Why Not?

In class, our teacher sits or stands
and teaches – nothing more.
Of course, she does it very well,
but really – what a bore!

If only she would come to school
upon a kangaroo,
or elephant, or circus horse –
perhaps a sheep would do.

Suppose she flew around the room
and wrote things on the ceiling,
or swung on lights in silken tights –
now THAT would be appealing!

What if she did some fancy tricks,
like sawing kids in two,
or if she simply waved a wand
and vanished in the blue?

Or juggled eggs or swallowed eels
or jumped out of a pie?
We wouldn't care what mad idea,
if only she'd just try!

Christian Ward
Cicada Song

The cicadas 
are running up
their summer outfits
from scratch.

All day long,
they scrape away,
stitching up the summer sun
with their song.

All day long,
their sewing machines
whirr and rattle,
rattle and whirr.

Then one day,
there's a different sound –
it's silence.

No more clatter of machines,
no more cicada song.
No more summer –
the cicadas have gone.

Philippa Werry


