A place for secret safe-keeping, looking down on the world and its scurrying antics. A cross-legged comic reading haunt. The desire to clamber up and find you always there, even now, grown and my climbing days bound up with the wheeled chariot. All the things we wanted to discover and did not find, even where they should have been, set on smooth wide branches crying out for a child-loving carpenter. Alas no sign. So instead the treehouse existed only in our imagination, much as it still does, sitting beneath a rug for a tent, or snuggled in a duvet, I know I gaze onwards through the dense woodland, breathe in the sweet, rot-tainted scent of fallen leaves. Even here, hermitted in a house of bricks, with my eyes shut, I own a telescope and a pirate flag, books and a box of treasures nestled in the corners, an altar in your limbs, plimsolled feet curtailed in the dust, and see further than ever before.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015