Sanctuary

The rain gently falls

Drops dance on rooftops

A soothing sound

Gentle and calming

My two huskies lay by my side

Balls of fluffy chaos

Balls of fluffy love

These two can read me

As I can read pages in a book

Solace I find in their company

The house is but a shell

Within its wall we live

Many memories contained within

Mixed and confused

Both good and bad

But it is my home

The home I share with my wife

Sanctuary I seek

I find it in my chair

A grubby grey chair

A chair that has witnessed many highs and lows

A chair that I have known for over 25 years

A chair that connects the now and the past

A chair I have curled up in and slept

A chair I have laughed uncontrollably in

A chair where many a tear has fallen

A chair where stories have been created

A chair where stories have been told

My safe place

The chair now lives outside

Exposed to the elements

But protected by a roof

The same roof that shelters me

Sitting in that chair

I look towards the hills

Watching the clouds drift across the sky

As the light dims

Shadows grow long

The light of the day is all but gone

But in that chair I sit

Legs tucked under me

A safety blanket it is

Sanctuary is not silence,

Not the absence of the storm,

But the place I return to

When the storm begins to form.

It is the rhythm of rain

That steadies my breath,

The quiet weight of fur against me

That anchors me to life.

It is not that the darkness fades,

It lingers at the edges still,

But here it softens its grip,

Here it loosens its hold.

In this space

I am allowed to exist,

Not perform,

Not fight,

Not prove my worth.

Just exist.

The chair does not ask questions,

It does not judge the tears,

It holds me the same

Through all of my years.

The hills do not rush me,

The clouds do not demand,

They drift as they always have,

Unaffected by who I am.

And somehow in that indifference

There is comfort,

A reminder

That I can simply be.

Sanctuary is small,

It is ordinary,

It is worn and weathered,

And quietly mine.

It is built from moments,

From breath to breath,

From choosing to stay

When leaving feels easier.

And as the night settles in

And the world grows still,

I remain in my chair,

Held by something unseen,

Something steady,

Something gentle.

Not healed,

Not whole,

But safe.

For now,

That is enough.

Sanctuary: Finding Safety in the Ordinary

There’s a quiet kind of truth that lives in the spaces we return to when the world becomes too heavy. Not the loud, triumphant kind of healing we’re often told to chase—but something softer, more honest. Something like sanctuary.

This poem grew from that place.

At first glance, it is simple: rain falling on rooftops, two huskies curled close, a worn grey chair sitting just outside under a roof. A house filled with memories—some warm, some tangled. Hills in the distance. Light fading into shadow. Nothing extraordinary. And yet, everything essential.

Because sanctuary, as the poem explores, is not about escape. It is not the absence of pain, nor the silencing of the storm. Instead, it is the place we return to when the storm begins to rise.

The chair becomes the centrepiece of this idea. Not just furniture, but a witness—holding decades of life. It has seen laughter, grief, exhaustion, storytelling. It has absorbed tears and held a body through moments of collapse and quiet survival. Over time, it transforms into something more than an object; it becomes continuity. A bridge between past and present. A place where nothing needs to be explained.

There is something deeply human about that.

We often search for healing in grand gestures or distant transformations. But this poem gently challenges that idea. It suggests that safety can be small. Worn. Imperfect. That it can exist in repetition—in sitting, breathing, staying.

The presence of the huskies reinforces this grounding. They are described as “balls of fluffy chaos” and “balls of fluffy love”—a beautiful contradiction that mirrors life itself. But more importantly, they read the speaker. They offer connection without expectation. In their quiet companionship, there is no need to perform, no need to justify existence. Just presence.

And that theme echoes throughout.

The hills do not rush.

The clouds do not demand.

The chair does not question.

There is a kind of freedom in that indifference—a release from the pressure to be anything other than what you are in that moment.

One of the most powerful shifts in the poem comes with the line:

“Sanctuary is not silence,

Not the absence of the storm…”

Here, the meaning crystallises. Sanctuary is redefined—not as a cure, but as a refuge. A place where pain can exist without overwhelming everything else. Where darkness lingers, but loosens its grip.

This is an important distinction. The poem does not claim healing. It does not offer resolution. Instead, it offers something more realistic, and perhaps more compassionate:

“Not healed,

Not whole,

But safe.”

There is strength in that honesty.

Too often, we are told that we must become whole before we can rest. That we must fix ourselves before we are allowed peace. This poem pushes back against that narrative. It says: safety can come first. Even if everything else is still fractured.

Even if the storm is still forming.

Ultimately, Sanctuary is a meditation on survival. On choosing to stay. On finding grounding in the ordinary moments that hold us together when everything else feels uncertain.

It reminds us that sanctuary is not something we find once and keep forever. It is something we build, moment by moment, breath by breath.

Sometimes, it is nothing more than a chair, a quiet evening, the sound of rain, and the steady presence of those who sit beside us.

And sometimes—

that is enough.