Journey's Home


There are always journey's home,
dusty stretches of winding roads
where the trees on summer days
overhang with cooling shade.

Wild garlic shows scenting air
covetous of ground to share,
white trumpets forcing through
the green, to mix and
startle flowers unseen.

Drifting slowly through your mind,
of flavoured memories of pain,
those tender pangs of sore regret,
where as children you blew kisses,
played hide and seek and whispered wishes.

Walking barefoot, pavement hopping;
dipping, dripping, sipping, licking
oozes of coloured, creamy sunshine,
on sticky hands once so small.

Past the square where old men stare,
smouldering spirals on passing cares,
their fingers pinched with yellow stain,
eyes squinting through the sun baked lines.

It's here old ladies pat down dust,
on everyday starched, coarsened black,
as patiently they wait in line,
for bread to share their soup and wine.

Faraway behind closed eyes,
you play again those skipping games,
with tangled hair, red ribbons choke,
to drift alone, on bonfire smoke.





Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 545 times
Written on 2013-06-23 at 12:12

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countryfog
"Home is where, when you go there, they have to take you in." I've always loved Frost's line, and for a time it was true, but then there comes a time when there is no longer anyone there and even the place itself is gone, as my first childhood home is (now part of a church parking lot, though there is something sort of redeeming about that, in a way part of scared ground). Still, we have the memories to return to.
2013-06-23


shells
I am instantly transported back to my childhood and that is a lovely place to be. Love that line "oozes of coloured, creamy sunshine."
2013-06-23


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
A fine poem, Elle. You can go back, but do you ever really get to where you hoped to be?
2013-06-23


Chaucer Whethers
Luminously penned rich evocative tapestry of articulate memory.
2013-06-23