A Bug’s Life
The house I grew up in has other children growing in it now,
Making memories over mine like recording over old video tapes,
Playing bandits and dress up in colourful capes.
The tree house my father built for me
Exists only in my memory.
It must be hard to be a snail.
Carrying a life on your back is a heavy load.
Take me back to a little girl with golden hair,
To number four, Parbroath road.
So I can set down my past and leave it there,
Trusting it will be safe.
A view from the kitchen window into another life,
Of happy kids, and man and wife.
Like us, the trees we planted are fully grown.
The apples fell closer than we thought,
But we should have known.
Because like us the trees have roots,
That wind like veins between drains underfoot.
But trees can be replanted,
The stability I took for granted
Can be something I find in myself,
Maybe after three years of healing,
I’ve learned that home is not a place,
It’s a feeling.
Robyn Barclay, Poetry Editor
Robyn is one of our wonderful poetry editors. Please contact her via instagram @rxbynelena if you would like to submit your own poetry to Clitbait!
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