NaPoWriMo Day Eighteen

 

Twemlows Cottage

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,

each landing,

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.

 

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