In the beginning, there was a red brick house
with a cherry tree, plum trees, a rowan tree.
A long garden with grey algae stones to turn over
hoping for beetles underneath.
Tall grass with a shallow ditch, crocodiles inside
jump over each time.
The nettle patch where mum would
pick for our evening meals.
Summertime brought strawberries
A black cat named Gobbolina.
Two gerbils, Fairy and Windmill.
Until life took us beyond
this little house where
joy and pain
I found myself spread
a foot here, a hand there, another toe stretching.
No place was home
I wasn’t without a home.
The world felt made of multiple
I could almost believe each one stopped when I wasn’t there.
Three homes I moonlighted between
tropical beaches, mountains, climbing barefoot, homemade bamboo pipes, glistening water, lava, breathless
cold snowy peaks, soaring downhill, plucking soft chestnuts from hard shells, cold noses, clutter in order, warmth, laughter
grey skies, tall sandstone buildings, ridiculous rules, heart friends, a place where you could belong if you learned the language. Then time moving us on leaving only memory and internal imprint.
In the end, there was a trail
to a red brick house like smoke
lost in the folds of time.
This poem was written in response to the following prompt from Intimately Intricate: