Some people say home’s where the heart is found;

I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the being there,

The rooted opposite of somewhere else.

Fond memories may have tipped the scales

In favour of this slow, contented place:

The local shops, the chatter’s usual sound,

The morning stroll to coffee on the square,

The precious banality of passers-by,

Though each slab of this ecosphere will pale,

Next to the warmth of your own treasured space.

 

The soldiers come and tell you there’s no hope;

You grab the dog and run, no time to pack.

Evacuation speeds up down the slope,

While you, in your escape, dare not look back.