The suitcase is only half-unpacked the washing not done, the floor not swept, but the oven is humming, a sticky bowl and spoon are in the sink and the old alchemy of water, flour and leaven has begun.
Soon high crusts will gild, three loaves will be tapped from their tins, an aroma will flow through keyholes, will slip over chipped saddle-boards,
proclaiming more eloquently than a thrush delivering its blue and gold aria from the top of a telegraph pole, than a procession with lifted banners and trumpets, than a dog panting wagging circles around a room, Home, home, home, home!