Out of time

I’ve spent most of the weekend sorting through all the junk I came back with from my trip home. I found a poem I wrote when I was eleven, I didn’t realise I wrote stuff when I was that young. I thought it was a recent thing.

We were also looking through this old tin box with toys and things in and then we came across these really old exercise books, dated September 1913. In them, written by my dad’s grandma, lots of poems and songs and things, in lovely flowing handwriting. I could have sat there and read them for hours. It was a real find.