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The Ballad of Old Home

Updated: Oct 18, 2022



On the cliffs of those rocky mountains,

The skies sail away to the pink horizon.


The cold breeze of the winter ocean,

Sings seranades of sublime passion.


The green valleys of long lost love,

Beckon the pair of white flying doves.


The old rustic house on the northern cliff,

Is as frail as the stem of a fallen oak leaf.


Yearning to rewrite the stories of yore,

Of hide 'n seek amid the joys galore.


Of playful days and the murmuring nights,

Of homeward bound songs of the red twilight.


The broken fences of unpolished cedar,

Still wait for children gone to lands afar.


The faded portraits of the smiling days,

Still cling to the dangling rusted nails.


When the wind knocks on the creaking door,

The old books shiver in the numbing cold.


Opening the unread pages of rose petals,

The stories flow from the leaves so brittle.


The whispers still echo in the sands of time,

Like a feather swirling on the path undestined.


The night is long and the dawn's away,

But the old home still gazes across that way.


Waking up from the gloom of dark night,

With a new resolve in the early morning light.


 

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