Homecoming

Homecoming

You’re home from hospital next week.
I’m fixing brackets for curtain rods
in the downstairs room that will be yours.
I use my father’s tools, the few I took
after his death just weeks ago, and on them
are his hands, his eyes, his breath.

These curtains will hang, be opened, close,
day after day. Sometime towards the end
of summer your mother will step
into the kitchen to make a cup of tea
pulling the curtains to behind her,
thinking of picking up the phone.

From your house, in the far distance
I see the Chattri, white on the Downs.
Where the streets end, reflections from cars
twinkle in the haze like tiny stars.
The suburbs glaze in a blue silence.
You’re not yet home, though soon will be.