Home to Myself

Here was my home.
And the garden gate,
When opened, led inside me.
It was a shock,
With some pain,
To suddenly see myself spread
Across the garden,
Naked for all to see.

I stood, holding the gate, staring.
There to my right,
The bare track across
The tiny lawn
Shouted of my laziness.
Etched each time
I shortcut from the path.

The front door too, was me.
Every scratch on its bubbling paint
A part of my life,
Scrawling my condition.
Taking me through
Deeper into myself.

Inside,
My weaknesses revealed.
In every chair
And bare floorboard,
My life uncovered,
Revealing my preoccupation
With myself,
Humbling me.

Humbling too my wife
And children
There to meet me.
No matter who I was
They loved me,
Each one with
Something to show,
Or ask.

Mark wanted food.
Neal quivered his nose
Mysteriously.
A car engine, he said.
(How did he do that?)

Helen I held close.
She told me
We were both
Number one triangle
On the fire-guard.

There was a lot
I could not be proud of.
But there was a light
In the kitchen,
The dog had a welcome,
The children shone,
My wife had stayed.
It was a home.

Copyright ©2001 Tony Crisp