There’s a couplet of house sparrows clinging to the swaying Cypress, the feathers festooning the branches in their quivers.
I think that’s about as much movement as I’ve attempted all day.
There’s a drooling Tabby cat eye-balling me as I finish rinsing the last dirty dish, “you’re not even mine to feed…”
I think I forgot to eat lunch.
There’s something irking, that I can’t shake, when the passer-by crosses the street as I enter it.
My insecurities still haven’t got the memo.
There’s a Kite who trails a blaze of sun-filled memories on the Thames, reminding me I am home.
Home could be anywhere right now.
There’s 24 stress-sown Tomato plants and my house mate doesn’t eat them.
Each rumbling engine that crunches into the driveway seems as heralded as getting a delivery slot.
In a cacophony of minimalism, the silence sounded like music.
…and here I am living, despite it all.
by Ella K Clarke
Oxford Is My Home 