Save the date for small park BIG RUN 2023, 17th – 18th June

Home is a place you can go back to at will  
where your history sits

Our beautiful park welcoming the spring, holding tight till midsummer’s weekend. It reminds us of the freedom we have to simply take a stroll. It is part of our home.

The wonderful poem below brings to the fore the torment of being forced from your home and the things we might miss.

So join us from small park BIG RUN this summer, midday June 17th to midday June 18th, to celebrate and show solidarity with Palestinian people forced from their homes still waiting to return.

More details coming soon.

I have left my history   
clothes in the cupboard   plants in the garden 
who will eat the beans now?
the litany of what I should have brought gets longer: a stick to walk with
dried fruit  matches  better shoes  door key 
but they could change the locks
and now I think: scissors  scissors  of course   if only I had scissors.
What exact thing should I have brought to remind me of me?

We can’t look at once  in all directions and can be seen for miles 
unless we lie flat and still in clothes the colour of ground 
all we have as defence is how we move and what we have on our backs
if we are found we could be lost
we must stay lost to find the way 
beetles   ants  we creep up the slope    scan the hillside for men    dogs
we cannot rest too long    those who pass us might forget us or take our place
shouts in the distance    thundering feet

I am ablaze with dry    mouth sandpapered rough
thickly sticky lips    cracked tree bark throat closes over words unspoken
I flash a dripping tap    a bubbling spring    a watering can 
a wave that never comes    never crashes
someone gives us bread  sweetness spreads as I chew 
now I can wash my feet  tension skimmed off but   not poured out
I reach out to feel the soil beneath me   fall into desperate dark,
someone drops a pan and I start up shaking    how do I know it is safe?

Home is a place you can go back to at will  
where your history sits   where the language spoken is your language
days punctuated by those small routines 
kitchen cupboards with the spices you need to cook    a pan big enough for the family
the locked door    the shuttered window
rattle of army trucks roared into the village
it’s not my home    now    people roam round it
plan a future that doesn’t include me.