Home,
My mother said,
Home is not a house,
Nor a country,
Nor even a person like the poets say.
No,
My mother said,
Home is a feeling.
Home is something
You can touch without your hands
You can see without your eyes.
Home,
My mother said,
Home is like fabric,
Fabric you can feel without your fingers.
It cloaks your body
With the wistful smell of an embrace.

You lie there,
Blind and free
Between the fibres,
Turn to the stars of thread
And feel you are safe,
Feel you are loved.