If “home is where the heart is” as they say
Then my heart lies in pieces, scattered round
Like driftwood on a thousand different bays,
Not lost or dead but waiting to be found.
“it’s where you hang your hat” the saying goes
But my hat does not live on just one stand;
It rests on chairs and doors and piles of clothes,
Or sometimes simply stays right where it lands.
To call a house a home robs both those words
Of dignity, for they are not the same
For ‘home’ cannot be caged up like a bird
Contained within it’s finite woven frame
No, ‘home’ is like a song to those who hear it
Unseen, unheld, but felt when you are near it.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2011


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