Boxes teeter on edges,
crammed full of younger selves,
formative but now unrecognisable,
faces in thickened mist.
Dancing shoes are packed:
laying head to toe,
mimicking children
in large Victorian families,
nestled for warmth in bed,
coping with lack of space.
As I tape and label boxes,
I wonder which will stay closed,
concealing its underbelly forever,
refusing to give up its wares
for prouder, newer houses.
Sometimes, I wish to crawl in,
tape myself up
with kitchen crockery,
burrowing to forgetfulness,
finding a singular space
where moving does not exist:
viewings, listings, sale boards, asking prices
are ghostly figments,
glittering to coal dust
in darkened cardboard corners.
But then I see her,
eyes dilating with what can be:
more space, wraparound gardens,
kitchen islands to dance around.
Quite suddenly,
cardboard cities
are no longer a place of refuge.
My thoughts climb back out,
placing my imagination
upon taller, wiser trees,
where it can see sunlit bands
of new possibilities.
We regroup, join forces,
as we search for new homes,
eager, now readied,
on the move.