Lonely Homestead

The hills remember songs our father sang
When riding range before the break of day.
The winding trails where happy laughter rang
Are silent now, yet all along the way
The same wild roses, radiant and gay,
Hold modest faces to the sun. The sound
Of playing children in the twilight's gray
Is heard no more. Nostalgic meadow-ground
Awaits with hope for eager steps to bound
Across its greening carpet to make sweet
Its longing hours. The loved old home is gowned
In loneliness and yearns for children's feet
To skip across its floors. The years speed fast
Leaving the homestead dreaming of the past.

Return

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.