I dream of the day I have my own home
maybe thatched, with roses around the door.
It’s up a sheltered lane, with a path of loam
soft under my naked feet:
a yielding, moving floor.
I have time to write,
I have time to stare,
no demands and no choices to make.
Time for nothing, to go nowhere.
No emails, no letters, no time for fakes.
I think of what I have now
and let go in dreams of the future.
A home of one’s own, a salve to the brow.
Waiting, waiting, but it will be super!
I can move, and how.
I don’t wish to journey my life away,
to a place only seen in dreams.
The place I’ll call home is where friends can stay.
It’s a place to return to wherever I roam.
My home, my soon to be, home.
Polly Robinson © 2014 In response to Abhra’s prompt in dVerse poets Poetics : Around the world today – it’s the place for poets to visit, you will be glad you have.