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.
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