Poem Hunter
Coming Home
(25th March 1943 / )

Coming Home

The railings were old and rusty,
The door paint was faded and chipped,
The poor old house had seen better days,
The roof, made of slate, had now dipped.

The windows showed broken hinges,
The path to the door, overgrown,
This was the place where I was born,
The only real home I had known.

The 'rambler' that clung to the front porch,
Was a rose in the deepest red,
Now looking forlorn and so straggly,
I thought that maybe it was dead.

But tiny buds were shooting,
From the root beside the door,
And I was sure that, with a little care,
The house would come alive once more.

I watched as the 'SOLD' sign was erected,
And I felt I had reached home at last,
I knew that I would be happy here,
After what had been in my past.

I washed, swept, scrubbed and polished,
Until everything looked 'brand new',
Then my heart sped back to my childhood days,
My return home, was well overdue.

© Ernestine Northover

User Rating: 4,9 / 5 ( 41 votes ) 5

Comments (5)

A gorgeous sentimental piece of poetry. I can see why it received so many votes. Home is where the heart is, and it is certainly where your heart belonged. Beautiful writing 10 Karin Anderson
What a beautiful story and so expertly told. Andrew x
Some say that all of life is a coming home.You have pictured this and then brought it to life.Your A Star worth following.Love Duncan
My dear Ernestine, A wonderful poem, with a dramatic and visual effect. You epitomize what a true poet is. Nickoli
This very much sounds like our house when we first moved in 12 years ago. It needed everything fixed from the roof to the crawl space! But now, we really feel it's 'ours'. Wonderful poem. sincerely, Mary