A rolling stone gathers no moss? I began my life in central China, I’ve made my home in Australia, New Zealand and Italy as well as in the UK and packed up all my belongings at least twenty nine times but I have still managed to gather plenty of moss. Among my treasures are a sea washed shell from the Gulf of Carpentaria, a paeu shell I found on a beach in New Zealand, a small piece of knotted tree root that rises up like a sea serpant. On my shelves are four generations of children’s books some belonged to my great grandmother, one dated 1829. Over a door into our garden is the head of a green Chinese devil which came back from China with me in 1937, it is his responsibility to prevent any other devil from entering our home. A velvet frog belonging to my father’s childhood sits in a basket on my bedroom floor together with a tiny and almost hairless koala bear, a faded blue rabbit with only one ear, a moth eaten panda and Eyore, all of them companions of my childhood and watching over them all is my great grandmother's rag doll.

Forgotten

Climbing the attic stairs I found a child
Head in hands weeping among the cobwebs.
She had found a long forgotten trunk
Iron bound, its leather rubbed and worn.
Within were dolls no longer loved
For those who loved them are long gone
A teddy bear, a rabbit with one ear
Still waiting to be remembered.

Where are they now
The children who once dreamed of days to come?
Their days are gone
We never knew them and we never will.