When there were planes

There, I was small, and could barely reach the windowsill with my fingertips

A few years and I made progress, progress enough to draw on the wood

In coloured crayon and get told off, and blame it on my imaginary friend,

Tiny pink fingernails digging into my palms in earnest as I explained,

That of course, I was not at fault.

When there were planes, I watched them through the double glaze,

A double gaze, when looking once, meant I didn’t “see”,

And I peered into houses, blushed at humans eating dinner,

Folding teacloths, and doing other human things,

And when there were planes, I felt oddly unhuman.

Later, there were no planes, because there was no airport,

And I felt oddly unhuman again, even more so, an alien,

And the planes replaced by cows and sheep and so many, many trees,

Which I was too big to see the wood for.

And I thought they must have surely punished me, by taking me here,

Perhaps because I, not she, had drawn on the window sill.

So there were no planes, but I realised, I wasn’t at fault,

It was nobody’s fault, and home just a matter of taste,

If you liked planes like I did then home was beautiful, but if you enjoyed

Trees like they did, then home was here. And I was home, as much as I

Preferred to call it other. “The house.”

And then there were planes again, and I sat in them, and knew

That this was it, my chance to find home and beautiful and planes,

And now at home there are no planes, but trees, but fences, but bustle,

But brick buildings, but young scholars, terraced houses through the window,

And I feel human, and belong,

Even though there are no planes.