The railings were old and rusty, <br />The door paint was faded and chipped, <br />The poor old house had seen better days, <br />The roof, made of slate, had now dipped. <br /> <br />The windows showed broken hinges, <br />The path to the door, overgrown, <br />This was the place where I was born, <br />The only real home I had known. <br /> <br />The 'rambler' that clung to the front porch, <br />Was a rose in the deepest red, <br />Now looking forlorn and so straggly, <br />I thought that maybe it was dead. <br /> <br />But tiny buds were shooting, <br />From the root beside the door, <br />And I was sure that, with a little care, <br />The house would come alive once more. <br /> <br />I watched as the 'SOLD' sign was erected, <br />And I felt I had reached home at last, <br />I knew that I would be happy here, <br />After what had been in my past. <br /> <br />I washed, swept, scrubbed and polished, <br />Until everything looked 'brand new', <br />Then my heart sped back to my childhood days, <br />My return home, was well overdue. <br /> <br />© Ernestine Northover<br /><br />Ernestine Northover<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/coming-home/
