If a grain of salt was a little seed, What would it grow into? After one day there would be a breeze like someone blowing on your face. After two days, a drop of rippling water. After one week, a roaring wave, and floating on its furthest tip, a little ship. But the ship would be closed up like a bud with its sails tightly folded, so the wave would shake it and bounce it and swirl it about and fetch it closer. When the ship was within reach we could make it a beach from pebbles and stones or a handful of lentils, or paper crayoned yellow, or some old, cold custard or saffron-coloured rice. Then the sails would unfurl and three small sailors would scramble ashore. We would run outside together and lower a fishing net under the path and catch the rain that had fallen a month ago, roots that were wondering what the sky felt like, a number of worms that didn’t believe in birds because they’d never met one, and some old toys that liked the night so much they’d gone to live where it was always dark. We’d unearth a spoon -- ‘Moon!’ they’d cry, ‘Moon with a moonbeam that wouldn’t let go! It’s no use here!’ hurling it, laughing, into the air, and dancing because it was no longer there, although it would clatter above us all afternoon. We’d watch the real moon rising, and the bee-gulls reeling, and we’ d race back and forth to the ship four times so each of us would be the first to reach it, and the last to get there. ‘Goodbye!’ the three small sailors would say, ‘Here’s a shadow we saved from before we set out so you remember our visit!’ They’d scramble aboard with the ship gently rocking, And return to a speck of salt in our hands.