In my country,
I felt the gentle grass
touching my feet
lying under the cherry tree
with flowers white and sweet.
I watched the red plate
of the sun going down.
And, as the shadows grow,
so grew the quiet.

In my other country
I have grown used to the rumbling
sounds of cars.
At night from my window
I watch the stars.
My clock ticks, tick-tock
pushing forward time.
I think of the red plate
of the sun going down.

COMPAS Schools Poetry Competition 2013
Third Place