Comfort

Comfort.

A thing of the past.

My childhood.

A mum and dad,

A taken for granted love,

Mum cooking dinner, dad smelling of work,

Affected me forever,

A man who loves his family looks like this,

No one came close.

The slightest breeze of comfort,

A smell,

A memory,

Drains away,

A longing,

For the past.

Nostalgia,

A yearning for what's gone,

Unappeased.

I remember what it feels like to be a child,

Flowers are perfume and stones in a bucket,

Endless opportunities,

A fence in a tiny London garden is my horse.

I’d travel miles on my splintery mare,

My dog always by my side,

The sound of crockery in the kitchen,

Clattering and busy,

Assurance that there is a safe place,

Waiting when our garden travels are done.

An only child,

Misfit.

Laying on mum in a smoke filled room,

Orange wallpaper – trend or cigs,

Dozing off.

I've never matched that peaceful snooze,

Listening to the conversations of adults,

Through my mums chest,

Muffled and wonderful,

Comfort.

And with a comfy childhood,

Comes the task of living up,

As a grown up,

I couldn’t.

Perpetual child a therapist said,

Not mad or bad,

Sad in the head,

That comfort irrecoverable.

I wish I could read like I used to.

That would be the ultimate peace.

No agenda just stories,

I can still feel it,

And smell and taste it,

Like madelines.

But I cant be soothed,

Comfort is far away.