I have moved through many places
unpacked, made the bed
I was quick to make a home
when younger
like a puppy turns circles in their basket;
I placed my books in a stack
ordered by current favourite
stuck forbidden pins into walls
unrolled the red and gold wall hanging
beside the sea or sandstone flats
or desert dust,
I reduced my belongings, so that
they fit in a rucksack;
shell on back,
setting up little homes
here and there
trying out a dog whelk or an oyster drill
and shaking it off:
the books, the clothes, the wall hanging
unpacked, then packed,
a move was fast -
but like many things
it takes longer with the years
once you accumulate
Christmas angels, and a slow cooker, and a cot mobile,
and your dead grandmother’s handkerchiefs -
they move into your cupboards
with their memories and sighs
little scuttling hermit crabs,
limpets and wee buckies
stuck in the corners
firmly settling
in place