All Is Not Pink

Oil and Collage

Pitter, patter, pitter, patter
Through the arches,
Through the doorways
They came and they went
They ran, they played, they sang
They cried –
They are crying now – somewhere – but where?
Now they are gone
The young, not fully grown.
Only the pink walls remain,
An echo, a hum of small footsteps,
Pitter, patter, pitter, patter…..

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