Words by Claudia Potter
Cover Photograph by Ella Furnell
Hardening, rolling into little balls,
brown, dead leaves from trees fall,
trunks sicken, yet the trees still grow tall,
but there will come a day when death will call.
I will miss these naïve walls,
whose eyes have not seen much,
and I will miss this new wood,
which has not experienced the abuse of its clumsy owners,
with final scrapes and cuts and scratches,
and I will miss these new hardwood floors,
who do not collapse under the pressure of heavy feet.
I know one time, there will come a day,
where I will return to the walls and the wood and the floor,
and see all the damage and wounds,
that passing time has caused.
And I will have missed history and past moments,
and I will silently cry, from the inside,
as I realise all the moments I have missed,
(proved by the new cracks in the elements of the house),
as I realise all the little things in my hometown,
that I failed to witness.
My home, I will love you forever.