Move

The last three weeks haven't been a time to write, as I've moved house. Highs, lows, interminable boxes, important things buried somewhere, who knows where.

I went back to a poem about the last move, and it still seems relevant.

This place will be good – quiet, much smaller and easier to manage, with a small garden. There's a robin, bluetits, squirrels, pigeons, rooks, and a beautiful silver birch. I'm looking forward to seeing how it unfolds this year.

Move

The house is a stage set for exits.

The play’s over, but the props hang around,

make weight marks in the carpets

for the next players to find.

Home shrivels to boxes in a box,

shadows of belongings,

a past named in felt pen scribbles on tape

seamed over so it won’t

slip out and bare its teeth.

One room is so stuffed with stuff

I can only open the door

marvel where it all came from,

wonder where it will go.

There’s no way in.

The cupboards are empty

as they’ve never been.

Windows stare,

lights hang naked,

ashamed of their own bulbs.

Home. It’s not the creak

of that landing floorboard.

Not the sheets and pillows

and the dismantled double bed,

not that light filtering the curtains,

splashing the walls I painted,

the patch I missed.