CALLED HOME
The winter wind whistled round the corner of the old house,
It whipped up fallen snow to mingle with that newly falling,
All sounds seemed diminutive compared to it’s howling.
Most creatures, both beast and man alike, found shelter.

Yet was that a lone figure struggling through the storm?
Bent low against the tortuous wind and driving snow,
Step by painful step he plodded deliberately, yet so slow,
Till he reached the corner where the old house stood

An ungloved hand reached up to knock, blue with cold,
The sound seemed to echo through the night so chill.
He stood like a figure cast in white stone perfectly still,
The only reply was the howling of the mocking wind.

He knocked a second time, then slowly turned the handle,
The door creaked as it opened, no light could be seen,
No glow from a fire, no voice saying ‘Where have you been?’
Just a deserted hall and dirty dust sheets covering all.

He closed the door behind him, lit some candles with care,
He looked around the forlorn room, his eyes alight with joy
As he remembered those happy days when he was just a boy.
‘I’m home’ he called to the ghosts who watched him there.

He lit a fire and set a place where he could eat a scanty meal,
He had a loaf of bread just like the one his mother used to make.
In a battered pan he heated some milk, ‘That will do till I awake
In the morning’ he said to the ghosts who were waiting for him.

He wrote a short note saying ‘It’s good to be home. Home to die
You see, I have travelled from afar and promised the family
That I would be home one Christmas, home from the cruel sea,
I kept my promise’ he said to the ghosts who had waited for him.

‘Tis twenty years since that promise was made, now I’m here,
But there is no one to greet me, it seems I’m the only one left.
I am tired and weary and nowhere to go, and I need to rest,
Happy Christmas’ he said to the ghosts who called him home.

Ann Margetson. November 14 1996 ©
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