Homecoming

Coming home to warmth, welcome and love
In memory and hope a snug, a retreat, a womb.
A place to shed the varied costume’s of the day.
To gain relief from stress like warm sun on skin.
Where at last,naked of acts, you can just be you.

But what about the fearful, little, fragile girl
Lingering at the gate with her school friends
Prolonging the chatter, not wanting them to go.
Hiding her terror, aware he is watching them
Knowing hell awaits her from the paedophile.

Anticipation at the early morning bus station.
The overnight coach from the South pulls in.
He alights, tanned, pony-tailed, in dusty denims
‘Hi Dad, You alright?’ So casual, friendly and cool
Mum rushes from the kitchen and holds him tight.

Does it really matter now? Palestinian or Israeli?
Home, a shattered, smouldering tangle of debris.
Picking out of the rubble a broken sepia picture.
Tired rescuers removing bricks like eggshells
Around the swollen, lifeless hand, an eternal plea.

The weary cottar trudges home o’er the lea at dusk
A wind profiled hawthorn shelters lights and warmth.
Little ones totter to him, smiling, giggling a welcome.
The smell of peat reek, redolence of broth, new bread
The big ancient haw Bible. "Then let us thank God."

Home to a heavy, locked, reinforced, anonymous door.
Peering eyehole, security cameras, watchful, wary.
A place to share your problems with others like you
Where there’s a time to forget the violence, the abuse.
A home for battered wives, in reality just a refuge.

She stood on the cliff-top trembling with cold and fear.
Far away on the dark path back to the fishing village
Lantern glimmers show the return of other watchers.
Alone she peered below her hand into the freezing gale.
First she saw a mast, then the boat beating the storm.

Elderly, frail, confused, fragile, anxious, forgetful.
Nowadays they call it a care home, the nursing home.
Zimmer frames, tottering on pinned fractured hips.
Buzzing blue the omnipresent Teli in the lounge.
Solitary, vacant, wandered, fearful, Alzheimer’s.

Home, carrying the new-born baby, a minute life.
Swaddled in the fine lacery of the Shetland shawl.
Gleaming pram by the stairs, murals in the nursery.
Brand new cot, waiting, below gently circling mobiles
Sitting together, hugging, gazing at life’s miracle.

Home is where the heart is.
No, home is where the heart should be.


Ian MacMillan 14 2 2009

400 words