Esther Browning’s Mothering Sundae column about socks (Monday’s Oxford Mail) reminded me of a short poem I read and kept when I first worked in London some 30 years ago: Somewhere there’s a happy land Where all the odd socks go You never see it happen, but They vanish that I know I put in two, and take out one The others never seen Perhaps my automatic is A kind of time machine That whisks them off (but singly) To a place that knows no holes Where they don’t get worn or smelly And have happy little soles.
DAVE CLARKE Hugh Allen Crescent New Marsto
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