Winter Colour

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.