The birth of me blessed this place,
but all traces of existence have vacated.
A noble home; a country cottage kept
amidst the hills and briars with room
to grow and learn. The stoop unswept
and remnants of window hangings clinging
steadfastly to the narrow rod, t’were hung.
Songs that mother had sung for father’s joy,
or to her infant boy, linger amongst the cobwebs.
In my possession, but no heart for disposition.
Dreams of restoration to her former glory
have long since vapourized as eyes mist
and a wisp of her spirit fills me.
Once a beauty as was mother, but now
the only remnant of her who gave life
to this sad and rampant storyteller.
This fellow knows all that filled this place
now fills my heart to overflowing,
always knowing mum’s house was home.