The –––– saurus, by Mark Granier

I am the one whose bones they haven’t dug, part of an unseen clock keeping the Earth’s deep time, in silence, snug, folded into blankets of rock. I am the one whose booming roar was loud as a forest thick with rooks when the trees rouse them into a storm cloud...

Who? by Annie Fisher

Who has one foot, but no shoe; is all goo? Who shimmies down round your feet; shines like a sucked sweet? Who leaves a silvery signature trail; is a sort of a snail? Who lays five hundred eggs every year; is the visitor gardeners fear? Who will consume every...

Blueberries, by Jérôme Luc Martin

Start small, if you begin at all. Blue whales begin as blueberries. The redwood trees that grow so tall start small. If you begin at all, remember that – before they squall – the snowy blizzards start as flurries. So, start small when you begin it all. Blue whales...

Assembly, by Rob Walton

We have an Assembly about new beginnings. I put my hand up and ask if it’s possible to have old beginnings. Miss Carson says she’s beginning to tire of my questions. Later I do my very special out-of-tune singing. Miss Carson says she can’t begin to imagine what I...