A place of home

The place of first words
         of first family
of first games
         of first flowers
of first love
         roads I have walked
all my life
         long forgotten
long remembered
         here by a wounded willow
where I once took shelter
         here where with
net and jar
         I first fished
the shallow waters
         or through these woods
where I first wandered
         gathering chestnuts
to roast on the open fire
         there with coal in the scuttle
and snow on the ground
         winter with its subtle shades
of darkness and summer
         greens with proud thorns
on the rose the blood
         of my innocence
drip
         dripping
here in the place
         of first words
I am once again
         at last at home

John Lyons