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,
swings,
sleeping dogs,
gentle whispers.
It was a made bed.
It was somewhere to rest my head.
pickpoetry 