Home Script

I give minutes, hours, days in my home
something in me breathes only when I come back,
whispering sounds spill over.
Perhaps I am like a doormat
my weight has been gathered
in dark postbags by the daybreak.

And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals
searching for the exact angle,
over walls where a rhythm beats nostalgia.
Not wound, not tear but a blend
of anonymity and murmur, the parapets and roof
curse the skeleton of light.

I read home stories in stories,
old conversations flow like flashes of lightning
on my sutured palm.
My father’s face rises when the darkness
drops softest shadows on the corridor,
but his voices cannot be heard.

Like it used to be
The shades rip opens my childhood,
I hear the falling leaves.
cleansing my eyes for the owl’s delight.
The grass on the courtyard is wet with fog.
And the home still lingers in my memory.