the other parent

walking home

on the street where I’ve lived

all my life

same semi detached rows

and pebble-dash facades

only the trees a little taller

and my legs a little longer

passing windows

I spy similar families

preparing for dinner

setting the table

imaging the conversations

their lips mouth

there is a kind of warmth

from each one

different in shade

but still there

pulsing quietly

I reach the crest of the hill

and see the street

winding down

to where my house awaits

near the end

waning summer’s wind

bites at my lips

as I descend

ten houses down

as the road flattens out

I already smell

the tingle of simmering garlic

and other spices

as they the smack the pan

like we joked about

as kids

my home

more than just a house

but something that lives

and breathes

even with years of editing

it is the same, unchangeable 

and beneath its surface

laden with memories

behind the paintwork

pencil marks as we grew

scratches lingering

from my tiny baby nails

lego lost under floorboards

treasures left forgotten 

in the garden’s earth

secrets the house has witnessed

still reverberate from the walls

if you stop and listen

there are cries of pain

screams of joy

and sobs that whisper in the dark

my first words

unsteady and innocent

my teenage retorts

spiky and arrogant

falling asleep in its arms

awake in its warm embrace

safe from winter storms

and summer’s rare blaze

the house is full of noise

and light

a lifetime on long exposure

and as I touch the piano

its warmth explodes into melody

the vibration traveling down my arm

and into the floor

the house answers in reply

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

this is lovely poetry, haunting, serene, immersing