I got to my old house

The hall is so dark, you could be inside a tree 
and you’d never know. 
You could be inside a giant’s head, whispering messages 
into his ears wide open on their hinges. 
Nothing you say or do in the dark counts, 
not even laughter 
not even grabbing your best friend and kissing her. 
In the kitchen, there are enough windows to fill up the sun 
but not enough chairs to sit on. 
Each season, rotting pears would surround 
that tree that tried to climb the hill; 
I see it finally got away. 
I see my brothers, still walking down the driveway. 


Ashleigh Young is a writer and editor at Learning Media, specialising in ‘reluctant boy readers.’ Her first book of poems is creeping along, and she’s also working on the words for a picture book.