Home is where the heart is,

Every footfall echoes, now.
The cold fireplace sits,
politely, tidily, waiting.

The kitchen looks like a photo shoot,
No cups or crumbs or cats
To leave muddy paw prints
and sneak the butter.

Where is my home, If not here?
Where it waited for me,
where it had always been,
from the first.

Would that I could pack it
in a fragile taped box,
Or secret it away in my pocket
and steal it
from the lucky new occupants.

My leaving is of no concern
to this ancient house,
1826, carved above the door,
I turn the key
And drop it through the letterbox.