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 geography (University of Edinburgh), now student of history of design and material culture at the University of Brighton. Probably drinking iced coffee and thinking about buildings/computer games.

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