A POEM BY TOM MURRAY
HOME IS…
running wild with a
football
wind whispering ‘shoot
shoot.’
Rain ragged against my
ten year old face
I pause.
Gather in the high
chimney a finger pointing
To the cloud folded
sky.
This is my youthful
marker.
Amongst the self same
rough skinned houses
this gives direction
home.
After I flick the ball
high
with new bought
boots
score
Roy of the Rovers
style.
Home is…
another place.
Time carved hills.
A phone call father to
father.
‘It’s a boy.’ I say.
Memories surface.
Footprints in ancient
earth revealed.
Home is…
Memory birthed
moment by moment.
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