And we are a long way
The silent fields,
Lying flat against the moon,
Placing shadows where shadows
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