Tag Archives: home

199: Inn

inn bigal101 MF

Jamaican rum rattles on the mahogany, polished clean by sailors’ elbows. Here shines a welcome light, a home from home, a pleasing gloaming in the night for the sore-footed and the weary. A thirst-quenching tableau, a swinging saving sign, the old Ben’s Admiral bowed over his maps. A place for sitting in cosy corners, plotting courses and rousing rabbles and making and breaking plans. All mouth and no trousers by the time the bell sounds the end of your libertine libations and sends you all scuttling across the cobbles, laughing too loud, earning frowns and night-gowned tuts, and falling into a guttered sleep too deep for dreaming.

 

© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016

Photo from morguefile.com

 

149: Esplanade

esplanade

I sit, hugging my knees on the concrete, the hardness raw with discomfort. I am here but not here, not wanting to be part of the bustle that isobars around me and flows past in a stream of busy-ness. Unusual and so ignored, somebody-else’s problem hunched on the uncaring pavement.

They all pass in oblivious haste, but as I blink open teary eyes, I can just see, over the lip of the overflowing rubbish bins: a pebbled beach, and beyond that, a watery cobalt expanse that reaches to the sky and seeks out all the edges, that rocks back and forth just like I do, sounding like the breath of home.

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

139: Cavern

139 cavern

This then is the perfect penetration we are all searching for, the arrow in the eye of the beholder, the way of doubting Thomas’ digit, the plunging into entombed darkness knowing we shall rise again. This enclosed, cloistered warmth, the smooth-walled womb-heart of God, the belly of the whale and the mouth that is on fire for truth. A homing instinct that makes us snuggle into duvets, curl wet sand around our feet, fold our palm over a pebble, run our tongue around our teeth. Here we are wrapped and swaddled, safe and held, in the bosom of our maker, in the silent cell.

 

©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015

 

125: Hearth

125 cata

Here is the centrepiece of home, the warm heart hearth where the flames of compassion stay lit in all seasons, dawn to dusk. The curled cat may stretch now and again, glancing outside, the glass holding sunrays and siftings of icing sugar snow at arm’s length like a picture frame. Fire dances, coals burn, feelings zing in the heat, empathy and loving kindness keeping the centre ever still and white, with azure flickering in the depths. Unquenchable, inexhaustible, never-failing love.

Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015