Sock Island

Beyond the deepest ocean, and above the tallest trees

Is a weird and wild magical place, where my missing socks must be.

They start off in my cupboard, then they end up on my floor,

Then mysteriously my little socks, seem to walk right out the door.

I know they must be somewhere, as I rummage through my room

They were on my feet when I got home, so one would just assume.

I put them in the laundry, then I went to wash my face,

But when I bought the washing in, they'd disappeared without a trace.

I lie in bed and dream of where about my socks must be,

As I close my eyes and wonder, while my mum gets mad at me.

Maybe they went flying, well beyond the whitest clouds,

To a place where other missing socks, can get lost within the crowd.

I hope it's full of magic, full of stars and full of fun.

With giant rainbow trampolines, and golden orange suns.

Some socks, would be quite dirty, and some socks, new and clean,

And best of all, on Sock Island, there are no feet to be seen!

The Socks must live together, in their Magic Island Fair

With lots of games, and laughing, no washing must they bear.

They sit around the camp fire, sharing stories of their past.

Without a foot to hold them down, they're having quite the blast!

Dad's Football sock, he leads the pack, with his stripes, black, white and red.

My school sock full of holes and tears, keeps some knowledge in their head.

A ballet sock, with frills and lace, dances rounds and sings them songs.

While my favorite sock, I wore the most, just belched a mighty pong.

They party till the sun comes up, talking of their owners shoes.

They all agree that walking's fine, but running is the blues.

The spotty sock, he talks the most, he did not belong to me.

But he's entertaining my lost socks, with banter and with glee.

They meet and greet each other, always new socks to arrive,

Every home I've ever known, has some missing sock surprise.

I'm glad they have somewhere to go, a place they can be free.

Perhaps I should have put them in my drawer more carefully.

I wonder, as I lie there, with my hands behind my head,

If my missing socks are missing me, and the twin they left for dead.

Out on their misfit island, independently they roam,

But secretly, I think they miss, my feet, and long for home.

By Alison Nankivell