“Granny?” said the little girl, “Tell me that they’re real.
“Beth at school – she said they’re not. I don’t know how to feel.”
“No, my child, no, they’re not. They simply don’t exist.”
Granny’s voice was soft and sad like rolling mountain mist.

“What about the stories, and the pictures in my book?
“There’s Unicorns on every page. Come and have a look.”
Granny dried the apples she’d been washing at the sink –
“Heather, Darling, stop it. This is silly, don’t you think?

“Why not come and help me make a lovely apple pie?”
But Heather wasn’t there because she’d crept away to cry.
Unicorns weren’t real. So had all the books been lying?
Heather wasn’t just upset – inside she felt like dying.

She crawled beneath the stairs and sat, her chin upon her knees,
And in the musty dark she whispered, “Someone, help me, please!” . . .