at the end of our garden is the Lake of Fog

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This is what I saw when I looked out the window this morning. It felt like the starting point for a poem. Starting points can take you anywhere! They can lead you to all kinds of poems.

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When I walked along the beach I saw one of the rock faces had become a fog face. I saw the fog racing out to sea down the valley as though it couldn’t wait to get to the water. And as I walked a little fog poem grew in my head. Because we are doing story poems at the moment, my poem became a story poem.

The Lake of Fog

At the end of our garden is the Lake of Fog.

The mother fog lives with the father fog

and their three fog daughters.

They eat fog toast for breakfast with fog butter

and their little foggy cat eats fog sardines.

Today is the second fog daughter’s birthday,

she is wearing a brightly coloured

dress so she can dance in the fog

and not get lost. She will blow

out seven candles and eat vanilla cake.

She will get a skipping rope and

an atlas of the world because

they never know where their lake

of fog will end up next.

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