Home

Home is where the heart is
Or so I read once, on a sign that must have been advertising transplants
But I can endorse this concept, it comes naturally
With a smile at the door, that familiar easy greeting
Those well-trodden daily paths crossing again
The feeling of belonging, ensconced in the bosom of the family
Setting the home fires burning; whether passion or undemanding warmth
A heart worn on the sleeve to a stranger
Theatre whose actors inhabit familiar roles
With freedom of speech and expression
A stage on which true colours are paraded
Where idiosyncrasies are the norm
The inside reveals the inside out
A reflection of one’s self and nature
Bastion of identity and window to the soul of a stranger
They say an Englishman’s home is his castle
I can understand this, too
Central refuge of modern life and haven of odd jobs
Shelter from weather and errant riders of undersized scooters
Mental rallying point; a warren in which to lick wounds
Then the fence must be the ramparts
Although nowadays invaders are more likely to crap in the flower beds than rape and pillage
And molten pitch is a backward step when trying to keep up with the Joneses
But I still can’t work out
If the home is the castle
The fence is the ramparts
What’s the shed?