I like art galleries.

We are staying in Paris and have been to Disneyland and all the way up the hill to the Big White Church. The name Louvre sounds like loo, but inside there are women with secrets and men made out of fruit and books. He would be nice to read. We move on through arches and parks to another room. Where I can sit in the middle and gaze round at Waterlilies: Tired feet.

This is another Old Poem (2008) and was an attempt at Prose Poetry, a difficult form to write and only really works if you capture a voice. This is semi-successful, I think at getting into the mind of me aged 5. As I read it though. I want to change it. Perhaps a better approach would be to write it as a performance piece. Stay tuned for a potential re-write!