There’s a house in my pocket,
And it’s rather small to keep,
If I look through its windows,
I find a baby fast asleep.
She’s playing with her blanket,
Donned in a light-blue hat, whilst,
The neighbours at the doorstep,
Bring a dozen eggs in pack.
I’m not sure they expected,
That lopsided loaf back,
Or to jump along the puddles,
With the ducks waddling, quack!
We sit in the garden,
Beyond the stretching green,
Watching rabbits nibble daffodils,
And, of course, a cup of tea.
There’s a cloud in my pocket,
And it rumbles soft and low,
Whilst the deadlines tap like raindrops,
In a steady, rhythmic flow.
Now you ask me how I hold it:
This cloud, this house, this prayer,
But know our pockets stretch for stories,
With all the worlds we choose to bear.