Home, by Kezia Wright
There, the tree tops meet the sky
And the leaves flutter in the autumn wind as
they bid their tree goodbye.
There, purple evenings are home to the giant moon.
There, snow blankets the land
And icicles drip onto the morning frost.
The land is still when the bitterly cold wind marches in.
There, grasses of green arise from the fields
While sounds of the lamb throng the air.
There, the sun will spread its wings and shine brightly once again.
There, a soft breeze blows through the boiling heat
And gentle waves lap against your feet.
There, the sun will never die and light is everlasting.
Those Sepia Photos, by Opeline Kellett
Those sepia photos in the morning light
reflect memories of many times past.
The débutante ball in 1950,
the young gentleman at my hand.
Those sepia photos show happiness,
a world so simple, so young,
a world without fluster or time,
and laughter at a gleeful song sung.
Those sepia photos show memories
I don't want to leave behind.
What use now is colour in a world left so grey?
Those sepia photos,
Those times were the day.