To the English house

A year seems like a life time when it feels like you’ve slept through most of it
Certainly long enough to beat a few good grooves of doubt into your own back
You trace them now with your fingers and suddenly they are ugly and real
but a wise man your Father introduced you to told you that everything is cracked
and that through those cracks the light you have been looking for
but hiding from is able to slip through
You could fill them in. Smooth them down and paint over them
and nobody but you would ever know they were there
Or you could leave the wounds open to dry out in the sun,
let the little one that lives under your bed help you lick them clean
and then see if you can’t make something of them one day.
Share this work with someone though… you waited long enough to be able to
Colour in the big gaps together
Then underneath that perfect surface is a secret belonging to both of you
and you’re not quite so blinded by the day light steaming through the holes in your armor.
But leave a few. English houses need to breathe a little.
So let in the light and the air from outside
and if it all gets too much
you can throw on a blanket
or find a friend to build you a fire.

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