As Journeys Go

It's not the going, it's the coming back.
As journeys go, there's a distinct lack,
when the homeward trail is the sweetest view,
because the road is straight and leads to you.
What have I learnt, so far away,
when all I yearn for is the day
my weary feet reach your garden path?
Put the kettle on, love and run me a bath.
Such small comforts come with a price;
they mean I've settled for things being 'nice'.
Why have adventures, travel the world,
when I fly further when I am curled
up in bed, playing at spoons?
I soon forget those bleak hotel rooms -
Teasmaid and trouser press, pay per view porn -
when I wake up to a suburban dawn,
lighting the landscape of your eiderdown.
No snow capped mountains overlooking this town,
but your pillows loom larger and smell of your hair.
What good is the world if you are not there
to kiss it all better and make it make sense?
Though I may call you ignorant and your innocence
soon drives me away again, looking for more;
you know I'll return to knock at your door.