What i miss most are the voices;
the sleepy mutter at breakfast,
the shouting,
from one end of the house to the other,
and the slamming of doors,
see you later.
Those serious talks while washing up,
the flood of sound as friends burst in
welcome but unexpected,
the laughter and tales over dinner,
the distant voices out on the beach,
as the sun sinks in purples and pinks,
their words just out of reach,
then the quiet,
when all grows tender and hushed,
bringing the whispers of nightfall.