Reading By John Peel (My People...)

Kingsley Mole sat high on a windy knoll, his eyes

consuming the silent midnight woods.

He nuzzled his long molish snout deep inside the heart

of a marigold and let his molish

imagination skip to and fro over sunken galleons and

pirate pictures of rusted doubloons

and deep-water cabins stacked to the brim with musty

muskets and goldfish gauntlets,

once worn by Henry Morgan. The lark awoke and doffed

its plumed three cornered hat

to its own sleepy-eyed reflection, then it hopped past

the crested nest of the snoring cuckoo,

and flew off into the Lionel Lark morning looking for

friend Mole. Mole was on a marigold

comedown and sulkely scraped bluebeat rythms with his

ground-digging paw.

"Yes," he whispered, "Me and Li are

going aquesting for the Lilly Pond of Fox Necks.

Li'll know all the mapping gen[??], so the mole,

kneeling on the soft soil, said a morning prayer

to Ra, not even caring if he dirtied his yellow Rupert

trousers because his molish mind knew that