This home has been ours for ever, our parents’ generation and the ten before that too. This home
has been loved
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Beneath my head, your chest expands and falls,
It pulls me in and pushes me out—my tide,
So steady; brutal; vast;
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Come again, come again-
Orphic spring and lawny glens,
Wink gold light; beams supper bright,
Shine upon my tranquil hermit den…
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Rusted, familiar glints of silver and gold,
cold metal dances through my fingertips,
resting in the lock with a click.
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Girlhood was the homes we made
In the bushes at the bottom of the playground,
where the branches reached out from tangled
masses like welcome, open hands.
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I am out with lanterns looking for myself
amongst thorns, leaves and old bean bags that rot out
behind the shed – look there! My childhood watches
me on my hands and knees, scrounging and bleeding.
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The ghost of the stationmaster is sleeping rough
in the Winding House shell - its arched eyes gape,
the wind surges through him.
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Let me in
Clawing at the ribs,
those polished white candlesticks
pretty red tassels decorate.
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