Over the last few weeks, I’ve written a poem every Friday. Now it’s over to you. If you’d like to appear as a guest poet, I’d love to feature your poem. Your poem can be on anything – all I ask is it’s no more than 40 lines. If you’d like to be considered, please send your poem, together with a short bio and photo (optional!) to: estherchilton@gmail.com)
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🤣🤣 I love your little poem at the end there!
Thanks, Kim.
Sounds fun, Esther–and I, too, love the little poem–made me laugh!
I’m glad it did 😊
😊
Coming Home – A Poem for Friday
I am not going in there, not if there are great, big, ferocious tigers, Gemma cried.
Tigers, indeed, of course there aren’t any tigers, it’s a garden, not a jungle, Sarah sighed.
Each time she looked through overgrown garden at the building something else appeared wrong.
The tears weren’t going to come, she wouldn’t let them but it wasn’t supposed to be like this lifelong.
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I want to go back home to Spain, it’s cold here and there isn’t a swimming pool, Gemma appealed.
This is our home, Sarah said, feeling the anguish building inside, but to be concealed.
We lived here before we went to Spain.
Sarah closed her eyes and eighteen months fell away with pain!
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Eighteen months ago Sarah, Abigail, Gemma and Duncan stood here together.
Oh, how she needed Duncan now, right now, they were looking up at the house for whatever.
Are you sure about this, Duncan had said, wrapping his arms around Sarah eighteen months ago,
But, she had seen the fire in his eyes, the passion and the love for his work in Spanish office to grow!
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She loved him, she couldn’t imagine being anywhere other than by his side.
She had smiled that day, standing there, staring up at the house and at him as a newly wed bride.
It’s only for two years, then we’ll be back home, our home, Duncan had assured her,
She knew they shouldn’t have agreed to let it, she should have stayed here trying something as an amateur.
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She looked at the front door key in her hand and closed her fist round it.
She couldn’t do it, she couldn’t muster up enough courage to go in and gather her wit.
Something moved, there are tigers in there, Gemma screamed and clung to Sarah’s leg.
A black cat sauntered out of the undergrowth, he paused to look up at them with his wide green eyes, eatable to beg.
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A face was beaming at them from over the fence, my dears, you’re back, how wonderful, Mrs Minchin welcomed.
There was no finer neighbour than Mrs Minchin, who beckoned,
Come in, come in, you must be gasping for a cup of tea,
I’ve plenty of Ribena for you girls, Mrs Minchin said with a glea!
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Gemma couldn’t remember much about England, all she really knew was Spain.
Plates of biscuits, an enormous pot of tea and gigantic glasses of Ribena, were there to entertain.
Something soggy splashed her leg, Sarah looked down,
Amy, she cried, bending down to hug the Westie who was ferociously licking her leg, without a frown!
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She couldn’t get a job in Spain, Abigail made no friends at school, heat was affecting Gemma’s eczema to the bone.
Mosquito bites, food and most important of all, their house didn’t feel like home.
I can’t stand it, want to go home, to England; as if caught,
Are you all right, dear, Mrs Minchin said, interrupting her thought!
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Phillip, Mrs Minchin’s strapping six-foot-four son filled Sarah’s mind.
He had promised he would look after the exterior of the house while they were away without remind.
But, Phillip got himself a job of window cleaning, fell from a ladder, broke his leg six months ago, waiting for it to heal.
But don’t you worry, I’ve made sure the inside has been kept spotless, assured Mrs Minchin about her ordeal!
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Shrieks of delight of girls came to her from the floor above and she smiled, savouring the smell of home!
And then I got homesick, all I wanted was England to be at home!
Duncan had been called back at the last minute to finish a project, but he would be back by the end of the week at home!
Sarah looked round the house and smiled, then they would truly be at home!
The End
Wish I could Esther, but couldn’t write a poem that rhymed if I tried sadly 🙁
Not all poems rhyme, but don’t worry if it’s not your thing.
I thought they had too…? 🤔
No, not all poems rhyme. There are all sorts of different types of poem.
I can see I’m going to have to research this! 😃 I can feel another first coming on…!
Definitely! Go for it!
Haha thank you! I’m trying to understand them…..finding it difficult at the moment 😦