I was given a writing prompt – “home” – for a trip to Amsterdam a while back, and I’ve been musing over it since. This is the latest scribble on the subject!
Home is the sunlight golden glow, and the ripple of winds across the grasses.
Home is the gate where I leave a kiss waiting for you, if you’re not with me.
Home is the stack of books waiting to be shelved; the scribble of foreign tongue waiting to be learned; the scrabble of song waiting to be released.
Home is the spire that pinions the skyline; the pylons that march overhead; the gentle hill that tugs me on.
Home is a city of familiar potholes and unfamiliar tongues; of nooks and recommendations; of drizzle and traffic and smiles.
Home is the spiderweb of cracks that is slowly weaving into the word; here.
