Made of bricks

I'll miss the trains, 

the sprint to catch a glimpse 

of steam and steel just yards away. 

I'll miss the gnarly tree I see 

each morning when I wake, 

home to the crows. 

I'll miss the rain,

drumming on your roof light 

in the dead of night. 

I'll miss the birds in your bush,

the bees in your shed,

the two red trees. 

But now our size has doubled. 

We're bursting through your seams. 

We've crammed your cupboards,

filled your floors,

and still there's more. 

You've heard us talk

and so you know,

the time has come

to go. 

It makes me sad to think

they won't remember you;

their first home made of bricks. 

They've slept in every room of yours 

and laughed and cried. 

Their eyes first widened to the light

you let inside. 

And every night we carried them

up your creaky stairs to bed,

then tried to creep back down. 

When they're grown

we'll show them pictures of you,

the windows they first looked out,

the garden where they touched the plants

and the tree their daddy painted on

your wall to shelter them. 

It's hard to leave.

Each room a memory. 

A place we rested, healed and grew. 

But we'll take our pictures down

and pack our objects up

and take them somewhere new. 

And we'll have bigger rooms

and walls and windows

and there'll still be trees and rain. 

I'll miss the trains.