General

Come home, little petal. Come home to the hearth and warm milk by the gentle flames. Come home and talk while we sip and laugh over our own silliness. Why did we ever sweat the small stuff so much? Why didn't we let go and enjoy the ride? The hard part is over, the joy is ahead, so be with me now. Stay. Pull up your chair and belong. I need you in my life; I hope you need me in yours. Come and we'll paint the walls anew, set the furniture just the way you like it. So long as you are here I am happy; I am well.

Romance / Contemporary

Home is wherever you are, Adeline. Bed down in a barn and that is our home. Sleep under the stars and our abode has no walls. Slumber in the woodland and the trees are our kin. Dream with our toes in the ocean and the fish are blessed. Home, my love, is a state of mind and you are at home wherever you are because I am there too.

General

In my home is the scent of lavender, the delicate blooms in one of Cathy's old jam jars. The perfume brings out the delicate purple hue to the walls, the very same shade that is the colour of spring forget-me-nots in the morning light. I never aspired to a large home, preferring cozy and friendly. It is the perfect space for my needs and many of my wants. It is my “cottage” in the sky, furnished with everything rustic, the old being a stage for my new creations, new paintings daubed on perfect squares of canvass. A space is just space until you bring your own personality to it, make your mark, express what is sacred to you.

General

My home is in your arms. Perhaps that is why we travel so light, the material wealth of this world being no more than the dark mush after snow: transient, beauty tarnished with pollution. I need only love to be healthy and whole and that is something I trust only you to give. So what could cold walls ever matter compared to you? Call me and I come, ask and everything I am is yours. Your soul is the very song of heaven, the holy grail of my life quest.

General

My home sits on top of the little hill like a cupcake on a sugared plate, so proud on the frosted earth. She blends in so well, strong stone walls of the land and a door of aged oak. The windows look out onto the rolling countryside, casting her gentle gaze over leaf and soft grass. She looks twee yet inside she is as modern as any city dwelling, more so perhaps. I may need the country for my soul, but I have no intention of living without the modern conveniences I was raised with.

General

The cottage has walls like cold set oatmeal, painted white with window frames of mahogany. Inside is the gentle crackle of the hearth, chairs pulled inward to the warmth. The windows are mullioned, overlooking the meadows of horses and cattle. The radio plays softly and the smell of fresh cinnamon buns wafts out to great Maria as she arrives, a smile spreading over her face as she sets her umbrella down and takes off her well worn boots.

Family Life

My home is rooms and walls like any other, beds, tables and chairs, yet it is only the love there that matters. The walls are the colours of the ocean and sand, somewhere I adore. The walls are smiles and cheekiness, decorated with the pictures of the people who hold my heart. While we dwell here this home is so much more than the sum of its parts and for that I have love to thank, the glue of my existence.

General

These fields are the fields of home. Perhaps I had to go far away to appreciate it, but never again. I see its everyday beauty for the wonder it is and know this is where am most at peace. The grass waves like people in a stadium, catching the light in a way that shows it isn't one green but many. The blades can be skinny or broad, but in this field they are packed so tightly I can't see the earth beneath. In this spring that is so rich in rain, and on the good black soil of the district, each one has grown so tall I have to walk as if I'm on the moon. The recent rain lies in beads that transfer to my boots and soak into the socks I have pulled up high over my pants. It's a long walk over to the other side, but so pleasant in the early morning. The birds sing like they've never seen a dawn so fresh and I have to agree. I could see this a hundred times over and never tire of it.