Where The Flamingos Go Poem by Tanya Delanor

I took my great-grandson to the park,
or did he take me? ! I'm OK on the level,

it's the slopes that get me out of breath.
But it's vital to keep mobile, as I'm

constantly reminded by those who know
best. Nobody ever guesses my age right,

there again, so many numbers to choose,
and today of all days, of any day even, it

matters not a jot. Sonny and I have come
to see the Flamingo Trot, where the

babies are walked across the bridge to
exercise their little legs. ‘Is it only lady

flamingos that are pink? ' he asks, as the
six fluffy little white ones dash past. I

explain how all flamingos turn pink when
fed on pinky shrimps. He nods, and now

we search high and low wondering
where did those flamingos go? !