Little boy blue

Come blow your horn

The sheep’s in the meadow

The cow’s in the corn

Where’s the boy that

Looks after the sheep

He’s under the haystack

Fast asleep


I was born in Manchester and raised in Chelsea

Or so I was told by my parents dear

I preferred my southerly home

As it was near the sea

Shingle at high tide

Mud when lower


I was the little blue boy

Of the rhyme

Who slept a great deal

During the kinder months

This often caused chaos

But I was never punished

As my lovely father of the farms

Considered dreams

More important than reality


I knew little of my former years

Except for God’s largest meadow

There were acres of open countryside

Leading down to flat waters

Under huge skies

These are my earliest memories


Both of my happy places

Were water side

And I learnt to swim

At an early age


I am sitting against

My ageing haystack

With Tom Tuft

Who is married to my sister

Maureen

Their eldest is named after me

Boy Blue Tuft

Which brings me a great pleasure


I am not yet married yet

Although I am keen on Clara

A French teacher from Tours

She is distantly related to the man

Who strangled a mad elephant


This is the end of my journal

At least for a few weeks

I may return to my pencil

At a later date

Or during my next visit

Who knows



Tom Blue 7/25