Home is …?

A Triptych Poem

Photo by James Lee on Unsplash

Home is … ? Is that our home there, where we hang our hat? There, where we boil our eggs and stroke the cat? Knowing every cranny of our ingle nook, We turn the pages of our well-thumbed book. Home sweet home!, yet, there is still an unease. Cat-like it comes to paw and tease. Close the castle door! Put the kettle on! This is my chez-moi!, for however long. We stand at the window, take in the view. The cat in the room is just passing through.

By the rivers of Babylon our tears stream down, A foreign place, strange faces, foreign tongues. “Sing us a song from your far away land. We hear milk and honey there did abound.” “Tell us your story. How came your woes? We hear that God’s glory once was yours.” How can we sing so far from our home? Only sorrows we bring, shame’s dust on our feet. Plucked from our soil, full of sorrow we moan. With longing we weep for the place of our birth. Its sweet memory we keep. Here is not home. We long, long to see our heaven on earth.

The traveller stopped at the side of the road. He read the sign pointing up the steep hill. ‘Home’, said the sign. In his mind the word glowed. Memories came back as he stood there, still. The narrow track was well trod but not smooth. “Probably just some hill-billy village.” The world weary traveller wearily mused. “A place for the night to break the voyage.” There was fire and food and friendly faces. Folk by their talk seemed glad they were living, Taking each day with its joys and stresses. He slept well and awoke to birds singing. On the track back there was a coloured stone. He picked it up to remind him of Home.

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