celebrating and creating our own LGBT history in honour of Sheila McWattie

day fourteen

Come nuh. Come mek we watch.Tallawa.

Seet deh, how we rumble tumble back black inna we love.

Tek of we hat, boot and glove.

Nyam till we belly full. Returning. Renewed.

 

 

 

Jo Fraser, London

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day thirteen

Hallowe’en 1987

 

the tartan flash of your scarf as you appeared at the top of the platform at Euston

the beam of your smile as you ran towards me

hurtling a trolley to scoop up all my worldy possessions

crammed in cardboard boxes

 

the look of sheer delight across your face as you held my face

and we kissed

a long deep kiss

 

and a warm knowing glow hummed between us

as we took the first steps to setting up home together

sharing the weight of the wobbly trolley

up the sloping platform.

 

 

 

Fiona Thomson (age 58) Margate

day twelve

I’d know the split in the road

Gear down the confluence of valleys

Tighter grip to take the bend

His compression brakes and ring the bell twice for last homeward stops of excited moments to an ending.

This fortress, cloaks and shields.

Where we lay ourselves bare.

Front door, family, heat, quiet, company sometimes.

Cooking, home-cooking.

 

 

A collective piece by:

Janet Jones (age 54) Halifax

Nicola (age 48) Shoreham

Davinia (age 40) Shoreham

Tracey Daley (age 53) Hackney

 

day eleven

 

I’d know the split in the road

Gear down the confluence of valleys

Tighter grip to take the bend

His compression brakes and ring the bell twice for last homeward stops of excited moments to an ending.

This fortress, cloaks and shields.

Where we lay ourselves bare.

 

 

 

a collective effort by:

Janet Jones (age 54) Halifax

Nicola 48 Shoreham

Davinia 40 Shoreham

 

 

day ten

Ride

 

I’d know the split in the road

Gear down the confluence of valleys

Tighter grip to take the bend

His compression brakes and ring the bell twice for last homeward stops of

excited moments to an ending.

 

 

Janet Jones (age 54) Halifax

 

 

day nine

Home

Home is family,

Home is a friend,

Home is a mystery from end

to end

home is a house for me.

Home is a puzzle as big as the world,

Home is a house for young and old,

Home is a house for me.

Home is my family,

Home is my friend,

My house is the home for me.

Erin Lobb, (age 11), Horsham

day eight

 

I love my home.

I love the place that one day may be home.

At home in the Outer Hebrides maybe, will my first language return?

I love the memory of sleeping outside on the posh lawn of my old home, then later in the 80s sleeping with my clothes in the bed, so  they were not so damp on the up.

I love my forgotten Nairobi home and the generous welcome to a daughter of colonisation.

At home in the free (no charge) culture of the London southbank.

At home in a gay bar after a work do, when I am asked “do you know what kind of club this is ?”

At home in my holiday tent, with a stunning Welsh view.

At home in my tent that holds the love of the women who have shared and broken my air bed with passion.

I feel the luck that I can love my home.

At home in a posh hotel on the Brighton sea front, at home with the lovely women who perform sing and give joy there.

At home and privileged as I pass the tents, and the pallets and the tarps and the sleeping bags, and the people that the hotel permits to make a meagre home at its’ front, so the sun can shine on them, this day any way and give a little unhomely warmth.

 

 

 Harriet, (age 60) Woking