A shrunken wardrobe and a suitcase,
A moleskine and a sensible handbag,
A bed on the floor, with a friend, with family.
Home is becoming magical,
Something made up of a fridge to call my own,
Where it smells of all my things,
And the pollens don't make me sneeze and itch.
And the washing machine thumps and spins
And the sheets smell of sunshine.
The push into Spring is met with a moss carpet
And lilies of the valley poke their tips through soil
And buses and trains and high rise buildings are to be kept far away
For eight weeks!
The longest time this year so far.
My return is met by a still growing gathering
of pot plants
and happy faces from my housemate.
Just at the time before the last frost
When seeds are sown indoors for observation
And to promote tenacity.
And just before my loved ones leave
For far away and ancient lands,
of saffron, indigo, art and incense.
A little jealous,
I will tend their garden. And have fun playing homesteader
And watching the Spring progress up the mountains,
Home is where my books are,
And where I can observe the slowest of things.
Sip black coffee and red wine and make.
Without interruption or bed-time