change
Change is permanent
Leaves will fall
Iron rusts
Babys born
The seeds of change will settle on the will of the wind
New leaves
Fresh iron
Babys born
Change is permanent
Young 'un
Young 'Un As i meandered through the nostalgic part of my brainbox one day, I came across a small boy. Pencil skinny he was and afflicted with ubiquitous grubbiness. A light grey schoolshirt, button missing, drifted in and out of dark flannel shorts, the pockets of which only he knew, or wanted to know the contents of. His face was made out of grime and freckles, a touch of snot and a large dollop of curiosity which was etched across sharp, blue eyes. Dirt crusted knees, the left bearing a large brown scab, which no doubt would be receiving some attention later, were the things propping up this morsel of a lad. Black, wooly socks struggled to cling to pale, wiry calves, in fact, one gave up and slithered down to the half mast position. Scuffed brown sandles finished off the bottom of the little boy, while carrot coloured, curly, wild hair topped him off and made him look like a badly labelled firework that had gone off unexpectedly. ...
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