My Dear Cradle
By Eloise C
Published 4 September 2024
The tall turrets tower over my head,
the wind will come, we'll soon be done with our whistling winding walk.
The path is frost, are we lost? We're back on the road.
My mum says stop! We all say what? We turn around - a photograph, really?
That's all.
The way back is fine, when will we dine?
I'm having lunch, not a brunch as the snow makes a crunch.
The cradle of a baby lies there on our mountain,
I hear a crash, we all dash and then it starts to fountain.
A long wailing howl makes my brain start to scowl,
Oh, when will we be done?
I see the tree that gives me glee. Oh, look out to the sea.
We all cheer, we're nearly here, my hands are as cold as freezer beer.
We find a rock that's a lace-white frock and sit down
to have a rest.
YES! We're here, we all engineer, a sharp cold comes down with a spear.