Home

Home is the smell of my mother's cooking
and the sound of my father laughing on the phone to relatives
over sea and sky.
Home is my unmade bed 400km from where I shield my eyes
and watch the sun set,
day in, day out.
Home is solemnly frozen and laced with heather,
whilst I swelter in the heat of summer.
And home is a teardrop in the ocean,
a harbour town,
a place that I have never been.

By Zigwamp