You are the sun, crisp and bright blinding the glorious galaxy.

You are a strawberry, sweetening the taste buds of a shy child.

You are the number eight, curving like a boomerang in the murky night sky.

You are a forgotten dream, left beside a dry, cracked wooden door.

You are a monkey, dancing in the moonlight stealing a banana.

You are December, shivering about with the dull coloured penguins.

You are the brainy Turnfurlong Junior School, writing a extraordinary.

You are a boy, with dark hair, flopping down into your electric azure eyes.

You are a red kite, circling the earth like the ring of Saturn.

You are the end of a book, with your pages swiftly blowing in the summer wind.