We wobble through the woods, conceal crayons
in the nooks of old trees or in bushes
so that Andrew can amble there, find one,
and exaggerate joy when he gets them.
His bedroom’s full of thousands of crayons
(so we inch them out into these wood-walks)
creating a constant new colour;
like blue, black or green, maybe yellow
and we reckon we’re conning the rascal
with a weaving of colours in the country
but I know that he clocks every action,
peeking sideways, pretending they’re new.
Why would he support such reprocessing?
Why? Returning fine splurges - delight.