Home is where the heart was:
a brick womb,
Cradling memories, drifts, mist, from time's gloom.
The luminous kitchen swelling, pillowed thick with heat:
Walls, baked bread again, honeyed crusts of Summer.
The Ovened Pudding (a special
treat) throbs its bomb,
Ticks impatiently for Custard, for us to eat.
Hot smells broth, from the copper's slopped suds;
(In the Spider House, the Fly House).
Whites, whiter than white,
bubble, stiff in briny starch.
(Here the gnarled rat lurks, the trembling mouse).
We washed our feet in it: It must have been March,
Or perpetual Summer: The bed spread Yellow,
And every day we played,
inside the Daisies.
It was all warmth, mellow. But then they came
With their Alien, same, God; Gun lullabies singing
In their lovely young bones, blood, eyes blazing hate,
Hating us, who they never
Plunging from the sun, like Icarus, dropping a.
S, s, Home, was, Sp, Trem, Spi, Kitch;
En, trembling, luminous, it must have the;
Bomb! In the Sun's Web, with
the luminous Spider,
In the ebb and flow of Silent Seas we played, caged,
But now, we're free! A strange freedom, this,
Orphaned, Flies raised by spiders, each one a child.
Out of Time. Yes, flee from
the gnarled House!
Run from the gloom of the luminous brick tomb!
Escape, quickly, from each Satin Trap!
Then make a Home of all this World.
Time makes Orphans, Nomads,
of us all. They're gone.
They're Ghosts, dust burning in the skin of your Hand.
Home is where the Heart was: It still is.
There's nothing else to understand.
By Richard Westall (Pub & Copywrite 2001)