HOME TIME

Night falls
And we are a long way
From home.
The silent fields,
Lying flat against the moon,
Placing shadows where shadows
Should be.
No hard corners.

Quaking grass shivering
As a small wind passes through.
Wild roses and yellow honeysuckle
Scenting the air.
And the whole of it so loved,
We begin to think we belong here.
To think we have a home here.

When, really, we know
We have no permanent home anywhere.
None that we have ever recognised

At least, none with a familiar structure.

                                         ©2020 Gwen Grant

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