We picked the wrong date.
The clouds were crying
And only for I to
run terribly late.
A weave of lying
to my mother set
us off with fine dew.
Your eyes still regard
your favourite request
in Milkshake Roulette.
While others bombard
us, being "obsessed":
I've hit the goldmine
when it comes to you.
We are still the same.
Drinking hot chocolate
from your mug I claim.
I've kept every spoon
you have stole, sunshine.
Your favourite perfume,
a date at the zoo.
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 :(•
