poetry

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

played by an open fire.

All sky

no walls.

Home was 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,

swings,

sleeping dogs,

whispers.

It was a made bed.

Somewhere to rest my head.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s