We were tired, so tired. The trip by train across two continents and seventeen nations had worn at our souls if not our eyes. Each new day had offered experience, adventure, and a test of not falling asleep. Yet in all those hours, those moments in time, the one view I’d savoured most was the last. Home was a sight for sore eyes and the one place to rest them. Home was a beginning, an end and everything in-between.
It doesn't matter how many pairs of boots you wear, the miles they've covered, what they've seen, they'll never replace a pair of slippers by your own door. It was a simple detail, lesson learned, but learn it I did. I just wish you'd been there to pass me them.
Little drops of light
Suspended in the night sky
Showing the way home
She swept across the meadow in bouquets of death. The snowdrops, my favourites, turned black, the early daffodils wilted in grey. She entered my yard without asking and took my hands; I didn’t want to go. Lady Death cajoled me against my wishes. I’d so hoped to stay at home.
The river swept around our village like a constricting anaconda. From the tip of the serpent’s tail to the willow that marked its tongue was exactly two miles. I knew every tree, shrub and grass blade in between, but nothing beyond it. I lowered my boat: Time to shed skin.
50 Word Stories: Tears and Handshakes
It ended in tears and handshakes like my mum said it would a formal goodbye and wet cheeks. Not much to show for five years nine days four hours and the time taken to order drinks.
Mum wept for other reasons when I returned, but the kettle was already on.
A fine line
Between class and shame
But no snail wants a cracked shell
They let in the light
Home: a vision in a dream.
I watch feathers drift
On unseen air like seagulls
Seeking a new home
But there’s no pond large enough
The ocean their sole abode