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Home – by Lorna Madson

Have you ever sat out on a hot summer night,

Swatting at flies and mosquitoes alike,

And wondered why on earth you live where you do,

But knowing all along nowhere else would ever do?

It’s a strange thing that binds us to what we call home,

Even if mostly it means being alone,

Is it things that have been, leaving sadness and aching?

Is it the future, something we are awaiting?

Or could it just be that today is enough,

Although some days seem awfully tough,

Is it this struggle, this fight to go on,

That makes us feel, this is where we belong?

To call somewhere home, is to settle somewhere,

And take what it gives, pitch in, do your share,

Only when you give all you have, will you find,

To call somewhere home, can give great peace of mind.

To each their own; some like the city,

The hustle and bustle, the parks clean and pretty,

They don’t mind the crowds or their tiny back yards,

There’re men in the park, drinking wine, playing cards.

But to call the bush home is something else,

An unexplainable feeling of freedom and wealth,

Big open spaces, fresh air and tall trees,

If you didn’t enjoy it, you’d be hard to please.

You may call a place home for a number of reasons,

Its fascinating stages throughout the four seasons,

But wherever you call home, do it proud, do it just,

For to call somewhere home is an absolute must.