Home

Where the hills are,
Where the valleys meet,
Where the fields end with cliffs,
Cliffs shooting down to the rocky depths of the roaring sea

Where the clouds are thick,
where the winds blow hard,
into the Irish pipes,
with violin strings,
playing harmoniously,
fast,
it soothes the heart

where a stream flow supporting life,
across the wide open land,
that changes colours every time the sun hits it at different angles,
green,
yellow,
orange,
purple,
dark blue,
green

where a small cottage is in sight,
walls of faded white paint, with red window seals,
and a moldy grey rooftop,
and laughter of the young and old


where a young lady stands,
as her dark hair takes flight,
on the wind blowing against her face,
making her eyes squint,
fighting the icy breeze

Where a young lady stands
in an old fashioned dress,
gazing beyond the hills,
beyond the valleys,
beyond the seas,
into the horizon,
and thinking,
this is where she should be,

this is home.
My home.