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An old poem rediscovered - I think it's from 2013. It's for Inge Schlaile.


Screen_shot_2017-12-05_at_08.50.24by Patrick Howse31 May 2015

Good or bad,
it was never made
of bricks and stone:

once it was
apple trees and hedges,
sunlight on wet webs,

and long summer evenings
playing until the ball
could only be guessed;

or a place of cats,
content in the warmth
of my hope,

cuddled children,
read to and nurtured,
bathed and changed and fed;

slowly it became
a darkness where I hid
from resentments

under fathoms of frustration,
sunk into cold chasms
of loneliness.

Now I've woken
from sleep I've dreamt
all my life

to find,
with wonder,
home is your arms.