I long for the distinctive smell of home,
for the autumn breeze to rustle my hair.
To sit for a day and just watch,
as the wind sends shivers through the grass.
The feeling of freedom, love and peace,
with nobody to breathe down your neck.
The whole land free for you to run through,
no fences to stop you, no one to block your way.
I live for the peculiar half painted signs,
that hang lopsided from the historic, aged shops.
The labyrinth of cobblestone streets,
that snake through the land like a river.
I long for the villas and kingdoms,
that embrace the past and celebrate history.
I long for the sensation of old and fresh,
weaved together into one.
I wait for the people with hearts as open,
as a hallway with no locks on the doors.
I long for their kind, warm way of looking at life,
their non critical way of processing what you say.
I long for the hint of bluebells,
that represent the first signs of spring.
I wait impatiently just to see the fountain,
sparkle playfully against the sky.
I wonder if I will ever see again,
the swans swim to the side of the lake.
As a bolt of lightning pierces the silver,
sending ripples across the water.
I love the glorious, glimmering sun,
the feathery snowflakes that weave through the sky.
The wisps of fluffy white clouds,
the rain shattering like a diamond against the window.
Home is the thing I pray for most,
hope, that one day I will return.
To the streets and hills of the valley,
and watch the setting sun slowly burn.
