You were already dead by the time I was planted in your soil. Your story is one told to me through grainy photographs. Echoed whispers of peripheral port cities. Somewhere lovingly untouchable. My home was once alive.
My stomach lurches while picturing these hollow streets, once filled with laughter. The harbour bursting with smiles. Each neighbour, a family or friend, usually both.
How I love this island! The salted summer's breeze, hand woven scarlet autumns. Wild flowers dancing atop cliff-sides, free for us to admire and absorb. Absorb we did.
I swear my bones are made of sea-glass. How could they be made of anything less?
In their stories, you are a fairyland. A cosmically unified olden wood, dipped in Scotch and swaddled in wool.
Yet your branches rot, thinner and damper each year. Soon the whispers will be stale air. No one will be left to tell tales of your beautiful youth.
Everything dies. How I once wished to see you in your prime. Even in your postmortem existence, you've given me mud to stick my toes into.
I see you melting into the sea. I smell your flesh being swallowed by bottom feeders. You are a wonder to me all the same.
I can't imagine growing up somewhere more beautiful.