My father's ship set out to sea ~
It was the year that I turned three.
The winds arose, and rains did pour ~
While on the land, I turned to four.
The sails aright, their strength alive ~
When candles on the cake, said I was five.
The boom did crash, there was no fix ~
The year that I would turn to six.
A drowning mass and sinking leaven ~
The tale would end and I was seven.
So as my Mum put out the light ~
I asked if father was alright?
She answered, "Yes, but he'll be in late."
I closed my eyes and dreamed of eight.
painting: Fred Beckett