My Homestead Poem by Paula Glynn

The key fits into the lock,
And I walk into my homestead,
I admire the freshly hoovered floor,
The air smelling of sandalwood and vanilla,
The shelves and ornaments dusted,
All the bookshelves neatly stacked,
And all the tables with a clean tablecloth,
There are keepsakes and trinkets,
With boxes of various bits & bobs,
Necklaces sparkling on shabby dolls,
Rings stored in China cups,
Drawers in the kitchen,
Filled with foil, cling film, pens and photos,
Fresh batteries, a torch and lightbulbs:
All needed household items,
And in kitchen cupboards the same.

Upstairs in the attic,
Memories linger,
In all those old school books,
Text books, records, tapes,
Even an old typewriter,
The attic seldom aired,
Sitting with boxes of stuff,
Years and years of memories,
And those years of sheer hard work.

Even in the bedroom,
I remember mother,
For cuddling me and wrapping me,
In a blanket,
And we would always have,
To keep the closet door closed,
To keep out the closet monster,
For these rooms hold many years,
Of mementoes, and history,
Of a family with love and happiness.

And I often look into the closet,
Remembering the stories,
Behind the clothes,
My shirts and trousers,
Reminding me of days at the office,
And the pretty dresses,
My daughter wore to parties,
And their school uniforms,
Are still there, stored away,
Those innocent days of their childhood,
And my son had his Batman,
And spider-man costumes,
To wear at Halloween parties,
And best of all,
I see my wife’s wedding dress,
And remember every moment,
Of our special day,
With the Holy Sacrament,
Our love lasting many years.

And I live here, even today,
Having mementoes,
Of a happy marriage,
And a happy family,
For this is my personal palace,
And the home of my dreams,
To be passed down,
Generation to generation,
Leaving the legacy,
Of my happy homestead.