The sound of home is my father holding a blade of grass,
between fingers and mouth,
blowing long, sharp shrieks across the garden.
The way sand and soil crunch beneath a spade
and the long, drizzling slide of dirt,
falling as it’s lifted out of a pit.
The old creak of rusted trampoline springs,
groaning on each take-off,
snapping back with the crack, snap
of static jumping jacks
to small, flushed hands.
It is the hum of rally-cars on Sundays
down the old airfield runways,
and the drone that vibrates my skull
as the parachute club plane skims by low,
doors thrown open,
the blue behind paint splattered.
It’s the heavy stillness over the nights
and the low-level whisper of the A41,
still muttering odd words at three am
while I sleep, content.
It is the sameness of it all,
day after night after day after night.
It is home.