Read between the lines; learning the shape of home.

It’s the shape of a cat curl.

It’s a golden dog on a high hill.

It’s a grey dog with mischief on its mind.

It’s a blue plate on a wall.

It’s listening to wrens stitch the hedges together with song

and

watching the bluetits,

finding peace in the shapes of small birds, learning the shape of a sparrow.

It’s the lie of the land and the fall of the light and the turn of the tide.

It’s the wings of a raven in flight and the rise of a pair of chough, from land, to sky.

It’s conversations with friends, and the silences between them that hold comfort.

It’s knowing, more or less, where the right book is, on the right shelf.

It’s log fires and its winter washing that always smells, just a little, of smoke.

It’s a small dog running on the beach.

It’s time to think, and peace to draw.

It’s reading by the fire while the rain beats on the roof.

It’s familiar mugs, cups.

It’s washing up, cooking.

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