Picture an English oak:
Standing bold and proud,
Her leaves whistling in the slight tranquil wind,
As her acorns drop, from a gradual height, every hour or-so.
Picture a picnic bench:
Covered with the memories of family holidays, and loose forgotten acorns,
The bench is perfectly hidden in the shade of her leaves,
It is occupied: two girls are sat, one girl is faded in the back.
Picture an argument:
The same old argument that happens every time,
One girl begins mean, as the other retaliates the same,
The fading girl stares carelessly, as if she has other things to attend to.
Picture a face:
All scrunched up, eyebrows furrowed, with sad eyes,
Crude words and swears inhabits her mouth,
Similarly to the other seated girl, differently to the other.
Picture three sisters:
Bounded by blood, not by love,
Tranquil wind stirs the Oak's leaves violently,
An acorn cracks in the centre of the bench: a sign,
They'll meet again, same place, with the same hatred, the following year.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
Poetry(n). A blend of homesickness, nostalgia and deep longing for something, especially one's home in Wales; an ode to the loss of our homeland, our language and our traditions. •I update this quite infrequently :(•
