A house called Home.

Clean each hand-carved wedge

every sill and every slate.

Every cobweb is brushed away,

all the crooked is corrected, until there's pride back on her face.

Man-directed Ivy hangs from its gallows of stone,

blanketing her waist in warmth for the coming storms.

Sunlight, directed through a thousand breathing trees,

splashing upon her check, kissing her with love

Creating those old age memories.

Torn and battered she has been in her wicked nature.

Made eloquent again by the passion of her new-found friends.

A bird-song for the future and an image for use to dream,

a haven to return to when the world frays at the seams.

With a heart fired from the hottest of coal;

her eyes of glass, her lips of wood,

her tears of rain, her face of stone.

May we grow old together

in our house called 'Home'.

Written in Marsden, West Yorkshire  23rd February 1996