Missing Home

a poem by Christine Anne Shaw, UK

When business took me far from home
my thoughts would always wander back.
I'd miss the simple things I loved,
my china tea-cup with it's crack.
The chimes that greeted me at morn,
the sunken mattress on my bed.
I'd hear the kettle's whistle blow
and long to be back home instead.

I'd miss the hungry cats who played
at trip me up as I walked by,
but most of all it was the kids
whose missing faces made me cry.
To think of them at breakfast time,
with toothpaste squeezed upon each brush
and then the hunt for missing shoes
a daily part of morning rush.

I missed our meal times and the fare,
my husband's cooking quite divine.
All home-made dishes I enjoyed
served with a glass of fine red wine.
United as a family
we'd sit at table each week night
to listen to the children's chat
and share their laughter with delight.

And when at bedtime I'd retire,
the empty, empty coldness felt
where back at home a goodnight kiss
then in his loving arms I'd melt.
Sometimes it takes a spell apart
to know what's truly in your heart.

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