Home

I was nineteen when I stumbled across your newly-built facade
and I knew right then, as the violins soared,
That this was no easy first step on the ladder
That some serious work would be required.

Yes, there were some charming original features
Buried beneath that ill-thought-through mock-tudor thatch
And no doubt some lovely apartments within
Some still-untrodden halls, walls to really make my mark on.

But, though my Mum told me not to try and change you
- she'd waited thirteen years for a new airing-cupboard door -
I lacked her patience; set to
with heavy-handed aspirations, a sledgehammer and saw.

I scorned blueprints. And we really had our moments, didn’t we?
Pebble-dashing each other with shouted accusations
that time I planted roses in your eyebrows
and they all came up thistles,

The solid-looking floors that turned out to be
unsecured laminate over rotten joists.
The windows which couldn’t decide whether to reflect
the sea or the sky.

Sometimes it felt as though
I’d barely finished poly-filling one hairline crack
and another would emerge
beneath the whitewash:

An hitherto unsuspected obsession
with Formula One
An ability to consume
your own bodyweight in kebabs.

But there were bright points in the darkness:
Tender frescoes hidden behind the crumbling walls,
The light filtering through the gold-dust
in the corner of the bedroom.

And so every time I slammed the door behind me
I would come softly back,
Having seen you light each window for me
from far away.

One by one the tools were dropped, forgotten
Letters from unscrupulous estate agents,
their details of desirable alternative des res’s
went unanswered.

Eventually I found I was content to remain
here. No trade-ins, no release of equity
No shiny uPVC double glazing
that would have fitted you like a bad suit.

Oh, home sneaks up like that, you know,
laughs at your doubts, kisses the back of your neck.
It makes you happy before you know it,
whilst you’re still making lists
of imperfections.