Don’t fold your heart away or hide its pretty ribbons, little one, up there in your tree, the day still green like new apples. Don’t let the cynic sun that fries the leaves dry your spirit or make sèche your skin with lies about time or flight; leap like skinny frogs or flying fish in the happy air, or like sea spray over rocks, unafraid of the landing. Don’t fear an end to the magical circus tent parading elephants and dwarves and clowns and painted ladies in sequined gowns holding the strangely passive paws of ferocious lions; let the death defying high wire leaps of acrobats without nets be your guide – life goes on after every thrilling dive until no matter what your age. Time, the old sparsely feathered cocky, in his cage can only parrot how it is. Don’t live in time which squawks of ends to things, but space which, from your lofty perch, you’ll notice drops away and away until it blurs and fades, but there is no edge or none I’ve heard of anyway; no traveller I’ve known can say they jumped, leaped or tripped and didn’t discover some ground with the circus all around.