Home Sweet Home, A Snapshot
poem
poem
The wind moaned over the chimney,
and by staying very quiet
I could hear the wail in its voice.
An oil lamp swung by a string from the roof,
backwards and forwards like a willow branch
when the wind in October is high.
The river came from the hills, tumbling over rocks
in showers of fine white mist, forming into deep pools beneath,
where it rested calmly after its mad race.
Now and again, a traveller passed along the road,
looking tired as he dragged his legs after him,
his hobnailed boots making a rasping sound on the grey gravel.
And the howling wind outside,
gathering in the dip of the valley,
sweeping over the bend of the hill,
singing great lonely songs in the darkness.
Out in the moor, a restless dog voices some ancient wrong,
its mournful howl causing a chill in my backbone.
As the hour of midnight struck on the creaky old wag-of-the-wall,
I made up my mind to leave the place for good.
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