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My Old Homestead
Paddy Cummins

One gable stands
Defying time’s
Destructive hands.
The thatch, so snug,
Now dust and clay.
Was once our cosy rug.

A heap of stones
Silent and grey,
No joyous tones
Of children’s play,
Or laughter shrill,
Just eerie, quiet and still.

With weary eyes
And hair of grey,
In the stillness
I pause and pray
For Mum and Dad
Now resting in the clay.

My little nest,
Our old homestead,
Where love and nature
Young minds fed.
But now just ivy grow,
And memories overflow.

******

First Prize in the All-Ireland 2013 Poetry Competition.
Active Retirement Ireland.

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