Home is Where

Home is where

your first and lost loves linger,

the scent of Cusson’s Imperial Leather

and lavender, like a silken scarf

curls and twines around your head,

her marshmallow touch,

teasing your memory.

Home is where

fresh baked bread and apple pie,

jams and jellies, all cooling

in the afternoon’s mellow light,

greet you coming there

when school is out

and saffron yellow butter melts

on a fresh cut welcome scone.

Home is where

dreams are born

waking in the morning sun,

fresh and frisky,

brimming with light and hope,

unfettered by failure,

treachery or disappointment,

ripe and blooming with possibility.

Home is where

memories fragment,

like packing boxes,

broken, confused,

their contents lost

while you search for a thought,

a hook to hang a hat.

Home is where,

past follies, misdemeanours

and careless adventures

echo down the streets and lanes,

tip tap in your footsteps,

flit through the shadows,

in the corners, out of sight,

in your mind’s eye.

Home is where

brooding menace waits,

the bogeymen of childhood terror,

with menacing patience

until childhood play abates,

there, in the shadow under the bed

and behind the wardrobe door,

slightly ajar.

Home is where

the slap of tiny feet

on a kitchen floor,

telling you home

is where you’re happy,

but there’s no notch on your compass

to point you there.