Holme


Our village was an island on seas of wheat

Its summers stole our carefree minds, its autumns heard the tree-tops’ sighs. Wild winters howled through chimney-pots, and springs of trampolines gave way.

Do you remember riding round the frozen lake on farmer’s tracks, the crunch of gravel underfoot, warm arms, cold streams, hay bale stacks?

Do you ache for ash where fires roared, for guests gone home, for lark-full skies, for dust that danced on shafts of light?

My blood, our sorrow lies beneath the flood. •

Ed Limb is a third year English student at Pembroke