Monday, November 17, 2014

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. 

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