Words by Claudia Potter
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.
Cover Photograph by Ella Furnell