Through the trees is a winding path, a road not quite as clear cut as the yellow brick one.

Where bears tap dance gaily and cockatoos sing, where emus write newspapers and cookies they bring.

Where darkness is light and lightness is dim, where lightbulbs change colour and cheshire cats grin.

Through the trees is a winding path, a road full of gypsies and acrobats alike.

Where dancers play flutes and gorillas tightrope, where tigers sip tea and llamas tell jokes.

Where circus tents blaze with patterns and silks, and where painting cows wait in line to be milked.

Through the trees is a winding path, a road speckled with magic and fairies and elves.

Where shiny wings flap in the soft scented breeze, and wizards make magic with a calm sort of ease.

Where warlocks roam free and dance at grand balls, where brownies mix potions that make spiders tall.

Through the trees is a winding path, a road that rings with laughter and clanging bells.

Where tinkling cymbals attract you to stalls, that sell scarves and hair ties, and small rubber balls.

Where tears fall down faces in the utmost glee, where no one or thing is taken seriously.

Through the trees is a winding path, a road caked with patchworks and handmade wares.

Where sellers wave their blankets and pottery cups, where bakers hurry others with a “Hup, hup, hup!”

Where sewn bits and bobs lay strewn across tables, and old tortoise mamas tell much loved fables.

A land full of mischief and confusion and delight, a land that muddles up your left from your right.

A land with paths that twist and turn, a land spilling with flowers and leaves and ferns.

A land inside the only one of me, a land that lays just through the trees.

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