Home was a terraced house by the railway line and a dusty alley where my brother learned to ride a bike that wasn’t his. Home was the ch-gung, ch-gung, ch-gung of the trains in the night and my mother’s shoes on the ends of the stairs.
Home was a terraced house by the railway line and a dusty alley where my brother learned to ride a bike that wasn’t his. Home was the ch-gung, ch-gung, ch-gung of the trains in the night and my mother’s shoes on the ends of the stairs.
Home became streets wide enough for tennis balls and bike tricks. Home was the barefoot, hot stone driveway and counting butterflies on the purple buddleia. Home was a stash of diaries hidden behind the bed.
Home became streets wide enough for tennis balls and bike tricks. Home was the barefoot, hot stone driveway and counting butterflies on the purple buddleia. Home was a stash of diaries hidden behind the bed.
Sometimes home was a flat mate’s cat or the sweater that was a Christmas gift. Home was an oversized biker jacket with a painting on the back.
Sometimes home was a flat mate’s cat or the sweater that was a Christmas gift. Home was an oversized biker jacket with a painting on the back.
At eighteen home was a bare room on the second floor in a nurse’s block. Home was carrying two mugs of tea down the corridor in my pyjamas for a slow catch up after the night before.
At eighteen home was a bare room on the second floor in a nurse’s block. Home was carrying two mugs of tea down the corridor in my pyjamas for a slow catch up after the night before.
In my twenties home (for a while) was a nice house in the suburbs and a lawn to mow. Home was lonely days and nights awake and notebooks full of wishes.
In my twenties home (for a while) was a nice house in the suburbs and a lawn to mow. Home was lonely days and nights awake and notebooks full of wishes.
Then home was high ceilings and big windows. Home was late night mingling, good music and good people and blogging it all from my first laptop.
Then home was high ceilings and big windows. Home was late night mingling, good music and good people and blogging it all from my first laptop.
By thirty three, home was a basement near the sea with a man who liked a drink or eight over a poker game that he didn’t always win. Home was a box of paints and a sketchbook. Home was a beach walk every day with a gentle dog. Home was a call from an old friend.
By thirty three, home was a basement near the sea with a man who liked a drink or eight over a poker game that he didn’t always win. Home was a box of paints and a sketchbook. Home was a beach walk every day with a gentle dog. Home was a call from an old friend.
Now home is a top floor view, with the sparrows on the guttering. Home is the gulls calling on a clear night. Home is a busy bookshelf and a chair in the window. Home is salty sea air, the hush of waves, the wide horizon and the bones of a burnt out pier and all her ghosts.
Now home is a top floor view, with the sparrows on the guttering. Home is the gulls calling on a clear night. Home is a busy bookshelf and a chair in the window. Home is salty sea air, the hush of waves, the wide horizon and the bones of a burnt out pier and all her ghosts.