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Grey Skies
April 22, 2012
Smells of amber sap,
And willow trees,
The warmth of life,
A wistful breeze,
A duskish glow,
I think of these.
Not where I was born,
But where I'm from,
These are my home,
It's these I love.
They're glad to leave.
They want to leave.
Adventure waits,
The change they need.
But no, not me, never me,
For I always dream of home.
But here, here
Where the winds blow strange,
And there's salt in the air
From the green frothy sea,
And the sky is too gray
And too dismal for me,
I think no, not me, never me,
For I always dream of home.
© Anonymous
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