Home is a faraway place

Staring out of a flapping tent door, sunset is hidden behind the hills. Cuddled up in a flimsy sleeping bag, I dream of a warm bed. Morning breaks- craving hot tea, watching my breath mist up in the mute cold of dawn, longing for the whistle of a kettle. Home is more than mattresses and pillows but a haven, where regardless of how wrecked we are, the door will always be open. Home is where we feel safe. Some spend lifetimes searching Some walk away without a glance. Others sleep under a makeshift roof falling asleep to the sound of dripping water. Many wish they had one, Somewhere to be themselves ...