My home

Inside my bag are packed the things

that fill my heart with joy

the faded, threadbare shawl

that whispers 

a tinplate soldier toy.
Inside my bag wrapped well in cloth 

a tiny mirror fragment

immortalised inside that glass

the ghosts of those I love

Some memories are intransigent
Inside my bag stowed very safe

two  engraved silver napkin rings

a wooden bowl of cedar wood

an ebony black queen a

reminder of past sins

Inside my bag I have my home

memories, from days gone by

I lost the rest, I am alone

I will be till I die.
The hostel for the homeless 

Is where I rest my head

My bag stops my neurosis

My home sits under my bed.