July 18, 2018


I always go home when I need to dream,
When I need reminding of how the pavement holds the footprints of my progress.
This light falls because I imagined the possibility of another life; away from here.

In my head this little town could be transformed into the world I craved: 
from desert islands, to sprawling cities, snowy mountains and lunch dates
with John Mayer shifting salt and pepper.

In the atmosphere is healing from heartache and disappointment,
My neighbours have heard my sporadic anguish from the open windows
and the belts of adolescent Les Mis obsessions. 

Sometimes I sit on the steps in big sister Sal’s kitchen
and I gush in gluten-free Battenburg and laugh at camp dogs.
Then there’s the holy place. That spot in the park behind my house
where I lay looking at the sky, empty.
How I let this soil nurse me back to resilience,
How I’ve shut the door of the prayer room and torn out the thorns of bitterness,

Because home is who we are, the memories that push the risk muscle to it’s limit. 

Because Bracknell is more to me than a small town near the M25, it’s the 
stuff that dreams are built on, tested and tried. 

It’s bullying and isolation and hurt pride. 

It’s cups of tea on the chair of contemplation,

The one that sits red and cosy in our kitchen,

Its hugs from Mum and singing with Sammy,

It’s Dad and his compost and his cat and Ben walking home from school with his cricket bat. 

It’s singing at the top of my lungs in a shower that works

and it’s feeling out of place but loving so much that it hurts.

It’s mine and yet it isn’t. 

Stay too long and it becomes a prison.

Home is not meant to house us long but to push us to keep seeking where the hell it is we really belong. 


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