It can be sunshine and all open glass,
Soul-bursting happiness, the world from outside’
Us, our house, the trees and grass all one,
When the birds waken, they waken the house too,
They fill us with their laughter, their sunshine and joy.
Happiness is as close as a sun filled window.
A house is the people in it
Loved or not, its spirit is from them
Not the building, for it holds nothing, can never be
other than brick and clay, cement and sand,
Joy is warmth with them, theirs with you. Their smiles,
their laughter. The sun can fill a dozen windows
but we see no joy except in them
A house is our image. Our view to the world,
Tall and imposing, people admiring, long driveways
And sweeping bends.
It can be smaller and shorter and squatter,
with peeling timber and an iron roof,
Or brown brick, tiles as red as ten thousand others.
Perhaps it’s the third storey up. It is us as they see us.
A house has our life embedded in those walls,
Walls that’ve seen our hopes, our fears, our hates,
And of those who were there long before us.
It has seen the time in black possession,
As the world has turned against us.
It has also seen the grey – the indifference, empty day following
empty day. Routine going nowhere. It has seen us at our weakest.
A house is a refuge, our fortress,
When tired, when sick, its walls surround us,
A place to sleep, to cover up, to protect,
A place to come back to each day, to find
Safety, our cave, with the door
shut behind us. The world is outside.
Tomorrow, the sun will flood the windows.
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