The moon beams crept silently over the empty house,
No sign if life, as, with gentle steps I entered the door.
The paper hung in shreds from forgotten walls.
No laughter, no tears, no cheerful welcome in the halls.
Yet, was that mother’s voice? Or the rustle of the leaves?
Could I feel the fire’s glow wafting warm across the years?
Could the old home be empty? Not cared for anymore?
No one there to comfort me from my loneliness and fears?
The stairs still creaked just at the bend near the top.
The knob still came off and the hand rail just as loose.
The green curtains hung at my window, now faded and worn,
Dad’s favourite picture still hung, the one of the old moose.
The garden was a tangle of weeds, the path barely seen.
There the wishing well where I had many a wonderful dream.
The moonlight seemed to bring them to life just as before.
There was even an old Christmas wreath on the back door.
I lit a candle and waited for the daylight to come,
I felt no fear, I felt no cold, just a sweet content
That I was home again, back to the days of my youth.
Sleep did not matter, lost in memories the night was spent.
The morning brought a ray of sun through the dirty panes,
Just as it did in days gone by, and will do again and again,
Whether anyone is there or not to welcome it’s ray with a smile.
Yet I do not feel sad that it’s empty, or even feel any pain.
For while we lived there we were happy and lives full of joy,
It still seemed to dwell on the stairs, windows and in the hall
The air seemed to cloak my whole soul with peace and calm,
I am glad that I came back to the home of my youth after all.
Ann Margetson Sept 19 1997 ©
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