Home is so unmoved.  It stays as recalled
smelling of the comfort of the first and last
as if to harbour memories regardless
of age, refusing to release its hold,
it stands so full of heart, with echoes of dinner

with steam lifting from hefts of potatoes
and withered veg, an adamant replay
of striped tablecloths and brown orange plates,
long cracked and stacked. You see how it was
close your eyes and see the scrapes of plates, the kettle.  
And that mug.