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.