a story of a beautiful little donkey

once upon a time, when beautifully coloured aeroplanes flew high in the big blue sky above a little green Island, when ladies wore pinnies with polkadots and small boys played with tin soldiers while their daddies fought with real ones there lived a little donkey. He lived in a field in the middle of nowhere and he spent all of his days and nights on his own; cold, scared and lonely. He saw (from time to time) some cows and goats. They would eat grass and while away the hours doing things that the little donkey hated. But he was so warm and kind and he had so much love to give on that farm that they were better than nothing. But the little donkey felt that none of the other animals knew him. They didn't light up when he ' naaaayyy'ed (if they had really, really known him they would of understood the huge sand-castles of words that he was trying to whisper to them. They were oh, so foolish.) . . .

. . . Over time though, the little donkey began to listen to the word of a huge oak tree in his field. He told him that there was a little girl in the little cottage (white with a swing on the second monkey tree and with little coloured-y lights on) that loved him more than all the cinnamon bark in India, all the tea-dress in London town and all the books in Trinity College Dublin. And so the little donkey found the little girl that he had loved so long also, from his beautiful field, and they have loved one another enchantedly, magically, dutifully and perfectly, ever since.
And would you believe that to this very day, everyone that passes that old field, wonders and wonders and wonders to themselves, where oh where could that old donkey have gone . . .