Home keeps us warm and well fed
But sends us away to get light and bread.
Some have a patch nearby where daily toil
Brings the fire and table’s spread.
Some move to lands so far
Where one needs must have a new bed,
Maybe coarser, or fluffier, but never
So restful as the homely bedstead.
Nowhere would one say, I love my bed
If there’s none to make a home
Or if there’s none to make a home for.
Home means more than one
Glad for the same reason,
Bound by the same season.
Home is not food or bed or caring
But all of these yoked by sharing.
Away from home the heart craves
For what it left behind in flight.
But as you near your door
The ground sends up a cosy wind
To embrace you under your very feet,
Forgiving you the desertion,
Welcoming you with benediction.