Our First Home

The cottage, stripped naked,

shivers in the cold.

Empty picture hooks

now functional bones.

The mangy coat of seagrass matting.

A family of daddy long legs scramble

exposed

in the bare room.

This is where John first kissed me.

This was my baby’s first home.

Our arguments, mere cracks in the plaster,

tears – the saltdamp on the chimney,

laughter, now worn like the pattern on the lino.

The carpet we bought together,

green fluff from one of my old jumpers

Darcy’s da-da chant echoes now

in the hollow rooms.

And on this wet Saturday

my heart aches like rheumatism

Just a house now,

not our home.

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