51 Chawley Lane.

That family smell that sticks to you and swirls about your head
as you run your hand over the thick fur of bright blue eyes blink, lazy.

And those brown eyes that blink, deep. That laugh that echoes yours,
or else your mistake. A verbal trip, skip, woops. Okay, blonde moment.

And your blonde hair the odd one out in this room of dark beauties.
Your giggle not the only sound as your stories mix and confuse.

And hitting buttons; a success story. Words battling against his head,
Let the girls be victorious! A game won by… clever means.

And those clever, clever minds holding all that knowledge
as we sit and stare or mock or drink it in; An encyclopaedia-know against your lack.

And that faded green against your back, a fruit-tea-mug in your hands.
That music is so soft it still makes me cry smile at those notes that seem so familiar.

And those people that smile with you and love with you and feel with you
in that house of heavy stone in the centre of empty fields.