THE OLD HOME

 

I knew your age was old

A hundred years or more

I remember your roof of thatch

And the red painted wooden door

Heavy stones built your walls

White washed a snowy white

Your windows set at front and back

To let in a little light

I remember the open hearth

A peat fire burning aglow

The icicles hanging from the thatch

When the winter brought frost and snow

A tiley lamp hanging from the ceiling

Its mantle burning warm and bright

Or the oil lamps set in the bedrooms

lit up to brighten the night

A chaff mattress to sleep on

The old walls damp and wet

Though a fire warmed the living room

The bedrooms were never het

You were basic my dear old home

No running water to a tap

The howling winds would blow at you

And crept through ever gap

Of course things changed through the years

A Wellstood stove stood to cook upon

My father took of your roof

And all your thatch was burnt and gone

Now the rain it beat upon the tin

Or hailstones rattled there

All of the family could speak of you

And many memories share

But I could never stop writing

If I shared all the tales of home

And this prose I am penning

Would be a never ending poem

But my heart now aches with pain

For I watched a digger one day

Load you into trailers

And they took you all away

Not a stone of you they left

It's as if you were never there

The place where you stood

So empty now and bare

Old house we knew no better

You were never a mansion grand

But you were home to all of us

This rag taggle Moffett band

I fancy that our bodies

Are buildings made of clay

Creaking now and old

And we will lay them down some day

The world will look for us

Our faces to gaze upon

But all they will see is nothing

For our bodies will all be gone

But also I know in my heart

A new body will be given one day

And a mansion it is waiting

When God calls us away

Old home we loved you

How heartbreaking was your end

But a glorious home is waiting for me

When to Heaven I shall ascend