Clutching my fantastical book
I push past the hanging grasping coats
Into the back of the wardrobe
I am eight

It is an old, well-travelled wardrobe
In the corner of a nondescript room
In a seaside holiday cottage
I am eight

I inhale the musty redolent smells
Of half-forgotten half-human coats
Which envelope all that I am
I am eight

I close my eyes and open my mind
I open the book and close my ears
I climb into the pages
I am eight

I am here, I feel the snow
In my happy place, where I belong
In Narnia
I am eight