The Puca

The puca arrived for the first time as the children got ready for bed Dressed to the nines in his shirt and tie with a chimney pot hat on his head Wafting his way through the hallway, he stopped at the back bedroom door Silent and present, pensive and po, not someone you’d choose to

The Bump

I was talking to the bump last night; the bump hasn’t got a name It might be one or t’other, either’s fine Explaining through your mother how we play the waiting game How she’s giving of herself to make you mine