Centauran

An eye, brimful, on a dusty road 'neath scudding clouds, but no figure crests the hill. A rose, long dead, rusted petals on the telegram, its edges black, it lies there still. She'd had no need to open it, for she knew its message in her heart. This day, that day, e'er the same, yet so many years apart. A sound; she turns and wipes away the tears, Her handsome boy, fatherless these eleven years, And she smiles, as his son banishes her fears.

Once upon a time, there was a wombat called Belinda. She was a southern, hairy-nosed wombat, because she came from the south, and she had a hairy nose. She had lovely, silky fur and long, pointy ears too, so she was a very pretty wombat indeed. Belinda lived by herself in a big set of tunnels under the ground, called a warren. It was quite big enough for eight Belinda's, but there was only her and that was how she liked it. Even though she had a good nose, Belinda couldn't see very well, so she had to sniff for roots and yams to eat instead, but that was all right because Belinda liked to sleep during the day and go hunting at night-time.

I remember it was a nice sunny day and my mummy and my auntie and my other auntie took me down to the seaside. I remember the seagulls, their screechy cries and their shadows rippling across the water and there was a big black and white butterfly and a man flying a pretty kite in the sky. My mummy and my aunties were talking and having fun. I was in the wading pool, 'cos I was only three, and the water came up to my middle. I liked splashing and I splashed a lot and I laughed too. Mummy and my aunties were laughing too. They were looking at something on mummy's lap and pointing and giggling. I saw mummy turn a big page over, with pictures o