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home is a harbour.

home, is a harbour. home is a guiding light through stormy water. home is a whistling kettle bubbling, boiling, hissing, home is the kitchen windows steaming.

home is a collection of miscellaneous, dishwasher chipped mugs, set haphazardly in crammed cupboards, home is ‘a spoon of sugar for me’, and gifted whittards’ tins, a whole world of tea.

home is crimson painted walls, and flaking woodchip, home is barefooted tiptoeing terracotta tiles, and fraying persian carpet.

home is the ticking away of a grandfather clock, each hour it will chime, home is the peachy evening gentle glow of fading daylight, dappled through single pane glass, a window from which you will watch the seasons pass.

home is hanging crystal prisms catching the sun, casting patterns on the bedroom wall. home is a cluttered desk covered in photographs, potions, powders, notebooks, you’ve neglected some or all.

home is cast iron pots and brass pans, the scents of garlic, rosemary, wafting up the stairs. home is wholesome, healing food, soups, stews, broths, and rising loaves of bread.

home is wrapping yourself tight in a chintz floral blanket, on a pale and frozen winters afternoon, home is tealights, lanterns, church candles, lighting up the room.

home is rain for days, skies looming grey, the sound of church bells descending in the distance.

home is silk shirts, and collapsing metal clothes racks, delicate china, teacups and saucers.

home is peppermint tea, ginger and honey, bowls of oats topped with butter, jam, syrup, strawberries.

home is crescent moon eyelids closing, home is collected wildflowers, each pressed between the pages of some ancient, and inherited book. home is growing.

home is vegetables growing in the back garden, home is a cat purring, a fox creeping across the silvery, moonlit midnight grass, an owl hooting.

home is a next-door neighbours wind chime twinkling gently in the breeze.

home, is a harbour. home is a guiding light through stormy water.

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