HOME...
He sits beneath the Southern Cross on a wrought-iron garden chair
And ponders on the day's events and how tomorrow he will fare
With an inner smile to acknowledge a good day's work's been done
His thoughts turn to other things and the peacefulness he's won
The flagpole that he's dreamed of, now flies his nations' flag
The bronze plaque he once wrote about, exists and he is glad
The mates he went with to war call and visit when they will
Once part of life the storms have eased and the night is still
The scent of eucalyptus trees wafts on the night time breeze
And mingles with aromas of almond, fig, and apple trees
Roses of a hundred types, unseen but clearly there
Transmit their wondrous odour as he sits without a care
And Misty, who adopted him when she was pregnant and alone,
Purrs and brushes against him, content in her adopted home
The mopoke and the night birds call and flutter through the air
And Misty just ignores them. Neither they nor she despair
The bantams are on their night time roost, having laid their daily egg
The rooster (Russell 'cos he crows) keeps them safely in their bed
Enshrined in leaves of flowering bushes, grown with love and pride
An old man sits content, and revels in his love, his life, his bride
And 'neath the Southern Cross this night, the silence suits his mood
Because the old man knows the joy of life, and knows that life is good
Despite the shattering year of war that's lasted more than thirty years
The old man has come to realise that the past holds no more fears
He blinks away the teardrops, stands, and stretches stiffened limbs
And takes the first of several steps towards the love who waits for him
Contented, he's prepared for sleep and sleep will welcome come
Mares of the night still wildly range, but he has come back home!
©Copyright November 29, 2006 by Anthony W. Pahl, OAM
