My childhood home
was lit by candles
in open window sills.
The warm summer breeze
blowing the scent of
wax around the room.
The sound of the
screen door smacking
shut,
and our footsteps
running off into the
evening.
Dusty books lined
shelves,
and a bowl of marbles,
where each one was
perfectly placed sat on
the cupboard.
Classic rock and
a mix of blues
floated out into the yard,
serenading the sunset.
We’d stay outside waiting
for the glow of fire flies;
catch one,
let it go.
Until it was time
to come in for supper,
grilled chicken
and cheesy potatoes.
Then fall asleep
in front of a box fan
squeaking under
the moonlight.
I’ve always slept better
in the silence of
the country.