Ruth's poem which is featured below, is due to be published on the Causley Trust website shortly.

People not places

By r.m.dunn

Homes are in people not places, Feelings not things

Home is not a green door and a shiny brass doorknob it’s a field, a smile, a picnic blanket and the last strawberry being left for you, that well-intentioned act a silent form of love and compassion, your last strawberry always.

Home is a bright spring day, a brisk walk, pinkies linked together, hair loose about your shoulders blowing this way and that in the warm wind brought forth in March and April.

Homes are in people not places, feelings not things

Home is not a city, cathedral or castle it’s a corner store coffee barely hot in a Styrofoam cup silently planted on your desk next to you, a forehead kiss, a whispered good luck, well done, keep going, I’ll see you at home.

Home is a cloudy afternoon huddled over a dying laptop in a library corner, unfinished coursework, discarded papers and pens strewn across miles of scratched wooden desk stretching out with the hours as they tick by, seeing the now cold coffee in a Styrofoam cup. A smile. They brought home to you.

Homes are people not places, feelings not things

Home is not the collective of rooms atop a staircase, inside a building, next to a street it’s a note left on the counter “your dinner is in the microwave, I’ll be home at 10 x”, those two brush strokes x changed the meaning, when they come to the house, home follows.

Home is a match striking the box bursting into bright flames, the embarrassment quickly dulls and fades, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, these people love you, home is the red flush that fills your cheeks the out of tune humming and singing, these people are home.

Homes are people not places, feelings not things

Home is not the place where your bed is, where you hang your shirts, hangers’ row on row its folded laundry neatly ironed, starched shirts at the end of a long day, the thankfulness that you did not have to do this yourself, the rest that follows unburdened and quiet, time to yourself because of someone else, anticipated needs, they gave you time.

Home is an unopened email, the subject line “yesterday’s notes”, absence of body is not the absence of love, a friend that knew you were sick, love is a bowl of soup appearing as if by magic on a nightstand after a long nap.

Home is the people you love; home is the people who love you.

Home is people not places, feelings not things.