The place you are is just a place,
It means no more or less for face.
It doesn't give you status or rank,
All it provides is your own place to think.
Hopefully that place feels like your little home,
But if it's doesn't you'll feel this never ending urge to roam.

Go out,
explore,
be curious.

That's the only way you will be able to find,
the place that's always been,
But you never knew,
At the back of your mind.

I stand here at the bus stop
still waiting for the bus
which I think may not be coming
still I don't want to make a fuss

Given the choice of getting on
the bus or walking home
I'd take public transport every time
over strolling home alone

I know I should say something
but how does one explain
that they've already bought a ticket
now their left standing in the rain

If I just knew the bus was coming
that one day she would arrive
I could turn my collar to the wind
it's only weather, I'll survive.

On the way home
The road path out to nothing at all
As I walk
People start to talk
Eyes are swallow
Sinking to the well

Hands up in the air
The sky is small
And the raindrops
Sweet, bitter I thought

I face the walls
Breathing become difficult
I struggle

On the way home
The path lost me on my way home

Here I sit

On a train filled with passersby and individuals heading off to the their 9-5's

Here I sit

Looking around this old rail car at the different faces and different moods

Here I sit

Thinking if some are happy, wondering who is sad. Who had a fight this morning and who got the lucky package before they left

Here I sit

Heading home after my long night

My long night of mending dreams and listening to worries

Here I sit

Thankful to be going home.

The wind shuffles the long grass
And the broad green reeds
Shifting and rattling
By the rippling black water
Chuckling water fowl splash
Swans and cygnets hurry past
And the weather is on the turn
It's time to be heading home

The last of the daylight creatures
And the very first of those of the night
Are sharing this half-way hour
The sky restlessly moves and changes
And bruised clouds rush over head
Like the rubbed eye-lids of a child
A weary teary child
Going home and ready for bed

The slack and glossy water
Laps at the stone beneath bridges
Echoing with the ghosts of barges
And spits of rain flick the air
Studs of cold hitting the face
Turning a collar to the cheek
And urging aching feet
Home-fire yearning me home

                               By Phil Roberts

Pearl swans shatter
the ice,
and glide swiftly through the
stars sparkling
on the mirror lake.
Twilight falls to the night
and the air
creates glistening
twisted crystals which climb
up the trees and freeze
the antique summer remnants.
The spindled sprigs of silver
birches drape their lustre
wantonly, forming long
ripples in a lengthy cascade.
Then the darkness retreats as
the pale blue haze of dawn approaches
where the robin's breath
sighs tangibly on the air.