Through my mind,
I often wander,
places of the heart and home,
are always first in there.
Well worn paths of memory I see.
Some of those journeys are full of joy and hope,
Others are not so full of wonder.
But they are all there,
all journeys, all paths,
all in their own, particular place.
Places of the heart and home,
often travelled in a ethereal reality,
wisps of cloud real and not real,
Touchable, tangible and true,
taken from our grasp,
with a sound,
a reminder of life.
There is a place I can go,
that takes me on those journeys.
I can feel them, places exotic and familiar,
places strange and exciting,
Khandahar, Beijing, Kyoto, New York.
Places of the heart?
Places of the home?
© Paul Cronin 2011