Home was a Meadow

Home was a meadow.

It was running away,

grass between my toes,

fresh cut flowers,

no socks,

wet feet.

It was the ruins of a castle,

a windy day,

tunes of an afternoon

playing by an open fire.

All sky

no walls.

Home was a bird song.

It was belonging,

our bicycle wheels

at the side of the road,

dreaming after rain.

Home was a midnight sky.

It was a painting of stars,

of trees,


sleeping dogs,

gentle whispers.

It was a made bed.

It was somewhere to rest my head.


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