The Fort


The Fort


His fort is made of cushions.

It looks like nothing much.

Its roof keeps slipping sideways

And its walls move at a touch.


It has a secret entrance

Which is hidden round the back

All screened armchair-pieces

Which we piled up in a stack.


It’s badly-planned and structured –

Its energy-rating slight.

But all the bad-guys tremble

At its sofa-cushion sight.


We hide in it at sunset

And it keeps the darkness out.

It’s the perfect small-boy refuge

If somebody starts to shout.


From deep within its safety

He can lob things at his foes –

Or at me, when I am working,

(I deserve it, I suppose).


It’s almost worth the clear-up

When it’s bed-time (and I’m more

Inclined to sit on cushions

Than on the carpet or the floor)


Just knowing that he loves it

And that he can trust those walls

Makes me forgive the carnage

And the tripped-on-cushion falls.


But I will admit, I envy him

That cushion certainty.

Sitting in its confines

Doesn’t do the same for me.


I’d love to find a place somewhere

That kept the darkness out;

That comforted me when all seemed bleak

And swapped in hope for doubt.


I’d like a sofa-cushion castle

Big enough for me.

It scares me that I am his fort,

But that no-one cushions me.