Cobble rippled pathways
Swaying in a permanent wave underfoot
Bespectacled with fragments of coloured glass
A memory enjoyed, spent and discarded to the past
Rooves melt away into the metallic sky
On worn red brick built to last standing to attention
Each door telling of a culture not always born into
Yet one able to be shared in by all
Leaves trod so repetitively into the road
Flaked away until a ghostly shadow is all that remains
Fine, clear night settles unlike anywhere else
A source of excitement juxtaposing its outlook
It is this place that we, smiling, call our own
Here we have built our present, become our true selves.
Lived our lives as if we knew no other way