Barn door
swings gentle in the wind
and as it swings it sings a creaking hymn
each rusting metal part contributes something to the tune
no caustic gale has swept this sodden farmyard free of life
time has cleared this plot, severing today from times long past
those who lie in the churchyard up the valley know full well
what years have brought this building down
with windows mostly out,
battered eyelets all shot through with jagged holes
as if the house itself had lost its stocky stone built soul
crouched low, set firm against a nagging breeze
sagging ivy wags a finger in its gaping maw
that bent and twisted raw bone knuckled door
and finds its way through rotten skirting board and floor
to lift the planks and venture to the cellar dug below
toppled from beneath, by damp and rot
where pale and sickly mushroom flowers grow
fat and pink among the creeping green
a place that better days have definitely seen

We drive through the dark
to her home,
radio lulling small back seat bodies,
so late that our DJs have hushed
and only the rustling burr
of an AM station remains,
in and out like consciousness
with songs of eternal love,
bread of heaven
ar hyd y nos

I’d not ask a life that’s easy,
Gold and pearls so little mean,
Rather seek a heart that’s joyful,
Heart that’s honest, heart that’s clean.

It's raining outside like buckets
                                  - - - like hard and fast and almost even
                                   - - - like rain you'd best not be caught in
                                    - - - like the beginnings of a terrible storm
except there's no thunder, no lightning.

It's just rain, and you are inside, safe with a soft blanket
(you are not scared and shuddering
  you are not crying and wishing not to be alone
  you are not holding in choked breaths, hugging yourself tight.)

it is raining, and it rains most days, here.
the trees around you are so green, like nothing you're used to.
you have a room to yourself, and no one who loves you who lives close.
(and you think you might love it here.)

this, where you reside, this is not a place you can call home.
(not when your heart still yearns for the place you grew up, so long ago.
  not when most of the people that make up your family live oceans away.
  not when you have just barely lived here a month, not quite yet.)
but -- but -- this place, it feels safe.

you can't remember living anywhere where all you felt was safe, before.
you - really - don't want to let that go.

Breeze flowing gently;
The waterfall cascades down;
I feel at peace here.