Tag Archives: home

Ghost her own home

She bumps in different rooms, she bumps in different worlds, different time zones, different countries, different beds. The midnight footsteps. The doors that open and close. The cold, always the cold when she’s around. And then the laughter, warmth on another plain, audible through this membrane, audible and awful and terrible.

Like in the beginning, she gives me sleepless nights. I hear her in the kitchen at odd hours; water runs; she makes toast. It’s dark. It’s three in the morning.

There’s excorcism in arguments, my accusations, her threats and abuse. I start to count my blessings, each and every one I’ll leave behind. Existence streamlined. Just to walk away, let her haunt someone else.

Up on The Downs

A girl sits under skylark and buzzard, her shoes and knees scuffed with chalk dust, she tosses a stone to the millpond. She is beautiful but this doesn’t matter. The wind in the wheat and the distant hum of the contented dairy herd. Below the hills sits the world. A world of avenues that look like hedgerows from up here. A world of toy villages with silent church spires. A world of kissing gates in the twitterns. She tilts her head and sends a mercury glint of glass rushing along hidden country roads. Up here just the rolling green, the song and the sky. Up here, stiles on broad tracks.

She tosses a stone and watches that perfect circumference expand, touch the edge and bounce back, meeting its children coming the other way. This is practiced and perfect.

The kestrel on the fence post stares. He tilts his head as if he’s a songbird, considers her, then he’s off, to hover swoop and abort, hover swoop dive and abort, until a dive takes him in to the long grass and out of sight.

There’s a horse that gallops but never goes anywhere, he doesn’t need to, from up here everyone can see him. And people will come to see him. The horse means the hills belong to her. So she tosses another stone and watches the ripples slow their children.