Forty-Seven.

I have had nothing to write home about for a long time.
Summer has come and passed with blistering days
which seeped through into nights that slow cooked my skin
beneath the hum of a ceiling fan, muffled by two forest green, foam
ear plugs I found on a night stand, somewhere in New York City.
And so write, I have not.
Nor have I sung.
Until a few weeks ago I heard the first notes of songs played
in the rooms next to my own, and the flood of music,
which was always supposed to be here rose again
and at once I recalled what this house is supposed to sound like.

This house sounds like three strangers come friends come family.
This house sounds like looms and pens running out of ink
and the rapid clicking of shutters on cameras.
It sounds like baking, the tapping of knitting needles
and the patter of four paws on hard wood floors.
The walls of this house bend and swell
with the billowing laughter of three aching bellies
because someone is doing something weird again.
It sounds like the late night return of a car which scares half the street away,
but isn’t so scary at all once you get to know it.
This house sounds like bills paid at the last minute, bulk toilet paper, flowers in every room and a thousand cups of tea.
This house sounds like we all need to go to bed because we have to be at the airport on time in the morning.
This house sounds like a death metal concert with supports from the
best punk bands of the 90’s followed by Johnny Cash being raised from the DEAD
just to play one final gig… in Hawthorn.
It sounds like the peeling back of Glad Wrap off tender limbs, sticky with Bepanthen,
and new tattoos.
It sounds like hard rubbish is on in the neighbourhood and we are redecorating!
It sounds like someone’s had a rough day and we need to have one of those group hugs that we all pretend we think is lame,
but secretly really enjoy.
Or maybe a high five?
Or even the thumbs up?

And in recalling all of this, I have something to write home about,
so first to you both I write.
For home is where the heart is is,
and mine is for you each
hence I shall feel at home
when we’re within each others’ reach.

For Grace, Steve… and Jimmy Page.

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