Coming home

autumnhouse

Coming home,

returning to the calm

of a mother’s arms,

the smiling face,

sun on pale walls,

the smell of new-mown hay,

the song of a thrush.

 

Coming home,

treading known paths,

touching the breath of the breeze,

sunbeams streaming

through foliage, glitter on water,

and saying this is mine,

nowhere else does this light fall.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

34 thoughts on “Coming home”

      1. I hadn’t been anywhere either, except for the vet when Mickey died and some parks that we drove to until we went out on our anniversary. Husband has been doing all the shopping, and he’s back to work at the golf course. But things are getting worse here again, so I’m not sure if I’ll go out again. Oh–the libraries reopened for contactless pickup, so I did go there–but because of a weird system I had to go to the one that’s a longer drive from my house.

      2. The US and the UK seem to have had completely chaotic non-leadership during this crisis. Why oh why couldn’t Trump have caught it and Bojo worse than he did?

      1. We only went to a small town and didn’t even go into the centre, but it’s such a pleasure to turn that bend and see home waiting. Just where we left it 🙂

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