Coming home is returning to where your memories live:
The tree you climbed and the stream you paddled in
And the joy of an old friend’s smile.
Home is the familiar feel of fingers as they curl once more
Round the chipped mug’s handle, your mother’s knife
Or the back of the old kitchen chair.
Home is your feet finding the narrow track that leads
To the gate where you lean to look at the view,
Your eyes caressing the long-lost hills.
Home is the whistle of the kettle, steam curling
Through the smell of the oven-hot pie on the table
And the faces gathered together at last.
Home is the much missed warmth of the fire,
The companionable silence watching the flames,
And the weight of the cat on your knee.
Coming home from the world is the sigh you sigh
As you sink into the armchair’s worn comfort
At the end of too long, too long away.
Coming home is returning to where your memories hide,
Where you walk with the past, and your love
Returned, makes them live again.
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