It sits on my knee.


The green walls began to get light.

The shadows have theirs tea.


A half-melted candle draws a circle;

open the window, please.


There is a garden and trees outside.

The church spire, a headstone and a grave

a long way.

The nearest footballfield is empty.


The butterfly sits on my knee.

At dusk it releases the dust from its wings.

Just one lamp on.


The carpet, like an island, is dark.

The child is crying.

The floor is in the bath.


An other child plays with the dolls and the boats.

The butterfly has its own roads.