Returning, we drive through a quiet lane
Bordered by chokecherries, a wild rose hedge;
Remembering, are children once again
Until our car comes to the river's edge.
We stop and long for white-top-buggy days
With Nell and King to pull us through the stream.
Walking the footbridge every creak betrays
The weight of years. Nostalgically we dream
With misty eyes of joys we knew before
We left the homestead. Now we hesitate,
Yearning to see our mother at the door,
Our father waiting by the open gate.
