The oak tree overshadows the drive.
I walk across the gravel,
brown Start-rite sandals
and grey socks rucked around the ankle.

The front door is wooden.  Creaks.
Teal, our golden lab, knocks me over
in his greeting of wagging tail, sloppy kiss;
his companion returned from school.

I find my mother, tense-shouldered
by the warm Aga, cooking,
in an apron embroidered by Portuguese fingers.
I walk through, don’t want to linger.

The sitting room holds shadows of my father
in his armchair, giggling at Morecambe and Wise,
chewing his handkerchief,
reading a newspaper by the fire.

Up the dark stairs
my bedroom overlooks the lawn.
The budgerigar’s cage hangs from the ceiling,
a vain attempt by my parents to stop my night terrors.

The hatch, window, two doors,
a space beneath my bed,
all present sinister corners for monsters,
snakes, spiders and evil men in my overactive imagination.

I take a book from the shelf and read,
write a story, drift into magical lands
of horses, wizards, unicorns.
The space if private, quiet, and peaceful.

Downstairs I hear the Home Service,
The Shipping Forecast,
occasionally the Light Programme,
my mother singing Que Sera Sera and Somewhere over the Rainbow.