John-Ward Leighton

HOOD.”

He sits
listening to stories
about home.
He asks himself,
“Where is home?”
Is it this studio?
After all he’s lived here
for the last eleven years.
Longer here than any of his two
failed marriages.
Longer than any place he’d ever lived before.
Early in his life
change and moving was the norm;
His birth family
moving to the beat of war
and property and natural disasters.
The ties that bind never,
never really very tight.
He remembered always being
the new kid.
He learned early to rely
on himself.
He made friends easily
and moved on without those friends
when circumstance and chance
moved him on.
The usual human ties of family
didn’t seem to apply.
He was generally happy
where ever he was
at least in the last twenty years.
Even at that, as revealed in his
hand written journal,
he was always preparing for the next place.
In his dreams,
always looking for that perfect place.
He was realist enough to know
the chances of achieving it
were slim and none
but still he drew small sketches
in whatever sketch books were available.
Home
became somewhere in his mind.
Where his body was is unimportant
home was in his being
home was inside his skin.
His belief in God
was this life and he thought
that where ever you are
God has prepared a feast
in your home
if not for the tummy
at least for the eye, nose and ear.
He thought,
“It’s time to put on my shoes
pack up my carry kit and cameras
and go for a coffee
and a piece of chocolate squares
and watch the young women strut their stuff,
all the God’s passing parade in the
Hood.”