In the middle of the rocky street,
road cones guide the way,
Their bright colours stand out
in the distance.
On the bright green fields
Big oaks stand tall and strong.
In the wind,
its leaves pull,
determined to be set free.
At school, the acorns fall
off the oak tree,
Making a pools of them underneath.
From inside the cold, clear cup,
fresh water runs down my throat,
after I’ve run around outside.
On wet days, outside in the breeze,
the smell of dark concrete
plays in the cold air,
making its way into my nose.
Pushing against the rocks,
the water shines and the sun lies
on the calm water.
Through the window of the car,
the mountains stand proudly,
but at the same time they get nipped
by the coldness drifting through the air.
This is the place that I call home,