Grace Heriegel

–

Old bricks, worn houses,

the sound of child’s laughter in the air.

Memories buried deep in my brain of

happiness and despair.

–

Flowers in hanging baskets

and lights above the shop.

Little me, young as ever,

nothing I would dare swap.

–

Now into the city we go.

Cigarette ash, drugs scattered.

I am older now,

a little bruised and battered.

–

Street performers

with voices so loud,

they overpower my music

conjoined with the crowd.

–

But now I am to move again,

to where? I ask.

I am yet to have my home

but I accept that task.

–

To find somewhere

and place a mat down on the floor.

‘Welcome Home’ it’ll say,

as I walk through the door.

©GraceIsobelle, 2024