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.