Hush. Sleep now. The earth is your bed.

One year has gone, little one.
The months flutter on
more stealthy than wings.
Shuffled in the spin
of multi-hued windmills.

The colours blend
back to the white.

The rain taps down,
tilts the toys,
flattens the grass blades
of the baby garden.

Lulled by a small rush of wind
the glittered sails spin.

Shush.

Sleep now.