Home is dragging twenty kilograms of a suitcase up a narrow staircase
in the middle of the night, with mum hissing at me:
Shsh! Neighbours are long asleep.”

Home is farmers’ market open for me 6 days a week,
and the man from whom I always buy apples.
(He knows Rubins are my favourites).

Home is the irritating stink of smoke.
(And yet I still come back to it).

Home is walking down my empty street,
watching out for firecrackers and kids up to mischief.

Home is my favourite cup with a cow drawn on it,
and the cocoa I always drink from it.

Home is the concrete block of my old primary school,
and the benches that have never changed. 

Home is the church I have not gone to in years,
and the hay scattered in the model manger around Christmastime. 

Home is the stationary shop down the street where I buy pens and rubbers.
(I wonder how it’s still open). 

Home is meeting school friends for a coffee and wondering
if we’re in the right place, because meeting friends for a coffee
is such a grown-up thing.

Home is the bridge and the panorama in the middle of the night.

Home is stacks of books that had brought me up,
and feeling fourteen when I read them again.

Published by kotersey

Graduated from the University of Edinburgh with a First in geography, and from the University of Brighton with a Master's in history of design and material culture. Probably drinking iced coffee and thinking about buildings.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: