A Pome a Day for a Year

Buzzing voices sound across the mounds of cut grass
as we play in the sun,
this is the last time,
after today we can never return to this spot,
never stand in a line at 8:30am,
waiting for the days schedule to
propel our brains forward.

My shirt is covered in scrawl
and I am sat on a broken bench,
the base carved and cut, splinters
the natural pal,
and I am staring at them all,
one by one,
looking at faces that have been
my makeshift family for as long
as I can remember.

I will never see them again,
most of them,
and in time,
I will forget they were ever a part of me
and I feel haunted, that importance
can switch on a dime,
that life has been designed in this fashion
to push and then pull
without regards to us.

I will miss them, I will miss this
unknown future
amongst the sun and the grass
and the noise of excitement that coats
this solid ground upon which we walk.
We had the world in our hands
but I never dared to hold it.