Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: HOME (02/07/19)
By Yvonne Blake
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ADD TO MY FAVORITES
Borne by the cry of whippoorwill.
It pulls me from
Life’s clattering, marching beat.
Floating along time’s ebbing tides,
I drift up and down, here and there,
Not sure, not calm,
Yearning for that distant shore.
The night wind carries the hiraeth’s tune
O’er the fields and through the woods.
It bids me follow,
To fly away, to sail away home.
Raindrops drip in mournful tears
Cry for elusive memories,
Yet water seeds
Of future joys that grow in promised lands.
Aromas of baking bread and roasting meat
Nourish the body, as well as the soul,
My daily bread
Gives comfort of family, of love, of home.
The hiraeth dances in the flickering flames,
In hues of scarlet, amber, and gold,
Like hopes yearning to be renewed.
A place of peace and sheltered rest,
‘Tis there my heart aches to be.
This evil world
Is not my home; I’m really heaven bound.
‘Tis not the walls, or roof overhead
Or even country fair, to which the hiraeth calls.
My Father’s voice
Is what I hear – my name, a prayer, a song.
Hiraeth – (eer-aith) n. Welsh - an intense longing for a place that you have never seen
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