Going Home For Christmas (Poetry)

Down the long lane — slipping, sliding
on the hard-packed icy snow
weary — hands and feet all aching
and still at least three miles to go

Pressing onward, chest now heaving
from the effort — puffing clouds
of beaded breath that haunt the hedgerows
caught on thorns like winter shrouds

The modest rucksack now drags weighty
numbs the shoulders, slows the pace
limbs exhausted, leaden feelings
find expression in his face

But still he plods, his course determined
he will get home before the night
closes in and makes his journey
more hazardous by lantern-light

He hums awhile to lift his spirits
imagining his loved-ones wait
all unaware he’ll soon be coming
through their creaking garden gate

Just fifty yards or so to cover
and there’s the chimney’s curl of smoke
hanging like a sign of welcome
pale against the sky’s grey cloak

A surge of energy renews him
he sees the holly on the door
the firelight’s flicker through the curtains
warms his spirit to the core

Then up the path, his footsteps clumping
when suddenly the door’s flung wide
and like a dream all joy comes pouring
as eager bodies race — collide

with happy laughter gently teasing
‘ Oh, look at what the wind has blown!’
their dearest Christmas wishes granted
with Father safe and sound — back home