Beyond the golden brush

Home, Sanctuary, Refuge.

Refuge.
Twice-dozen paces from a hedge wall, blooming golden on a warm day,
rustling softly as the wind blows through the leaves.
Another length, the same, from a sheer cliff face overlooking a placid lake.
A small fisherman’s boat in the distance waves to me with
its brilliant colored sail.
On three sides, barriers from the harshness of the world.

Sanctuary.
A darkened hall, security from the harshness of the summer’s sun.
A further step inside reveals a wood paneled room,
floor and wall alike covered with an elegant mahogany.
On the reverse side of this first room,
a flame filled grate spreads light to a nearby chair,
so as to aid the reading of one of the many books that fill
the bookshelves covering two of the walls.
The other primary source of light lies above,
sunlight streaming through a circle of frosted glass,
set into the centre of the ceiling.
From this window the panes of wood slope towards each wall.
A further walk along a rounded corridor leads to a stairway.
Upon heading skyward lies a far more personal sanctuary,
where the nights are spent.
Going the reverse, the destination is a warmly lit, slightly garish kitchen.
This is the domain of the caretaker of the home,
 aromas of a marvelous sort are liable to come from this place.

Home.
A place of safety, where one can truly be themselves.
Perhaps enjoy the company of a close friend.
Away from the terrors of the world.