Thursday, February 21, 2013

Return Of The Traveller.

I don’t know where I want to be right now, Lord,
In Your arms or at Your throne
I only know that when I came back home Lord
This house felt strange and not like home.
I flew across the sea to see New Zealand
And was amazed by all its beauty, wild and free
It felt like home, that I belonged there, yet every vista
Was something not familiar to me.

Back at my house with heavy bags and heavy heart too
I opened up the door to silent damp
Where was my heart; my joy; my dearly familiar?
This clammy space, sterile and silent had broken rank.
It lost its spirit in my absence; no voice or music
To keep up the appearance of a home
It was not needed, used, remembered; and now was heart sick
And from me no joy or love for this, my home.

So now to work, and You are with me, I’ll take stock Lord
That bolt that’s hanging off the gate is first
Then the pools of mud and water from that rain storm
Ground waterlogged, it clearly has no thirst
The hinges on the back door need some help now
They’ve lost their grip on a door they’re meant to hold
Dog droppings on the lawn; do they think it’s theirs now?
Come the morning they’ll regret they’ve been so bold.

Wyn Barratt Feb 2013.

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