There was something of the old-school dance and yet with a modern twist in the way that hula hoop moved. It was as if she had watched the masters of her street and decided to both copy and not, to learn from them but make it her own.
The hula hoop sat there quite still, a golden ring with a promise it could keep if given the chance to spin.
The hula hoop plays songs in colours we children spin, tunes of rainbows upon tippy toes whilst our eyes do sing.
A hula hoop in Whoville, the sweetest of childhood games, and to the soul a heartwarming serenade. Yet on these streets, these olden streets, as we play such innocent games, though the sun does shine and grass grows tall, we neither hula nor hoop upon an olden milking stall, yet with our feet planted firmly upon those rain-washed stones.
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