When night descends and chill is in the air
I see the lighted windows from the train
that takes me home, to stay with those who care,
and welcome me with love that hides their pain.
I close my eyes remembering the scene
where crackling logs illuminate the room.
Two dogs asleep, soft coats with golden sheen;
I’m home again, inside, out of the gloom.
The radiant warmth will meet me at the door
as scarlet tongues devour sweet apple wood.
I savour all the moments from before.
The train has slowed, I hide inside my hood.

I’m in my mother’s arms, clasped to her breast,
my darkest demons gently put to rest.

© Anne Turner 2014

(Also see  graphical presentation of this poem created by WW Schwim.)


It’s a classic “we don’t appreciate what we have until we lose it” scene.  I get a sense of a career-oriented person drawn back for a funeral or to make amends for a volatile departure that led to decades of estrangement.  Or maybe it’s all just happening in his/her head, as a train ride triggers childhood memories of the family hearth. The reason doesn’t matter as much as the result.  The call of home is compelling, and your description of it deeply appealing in this superbly crafted sonnet.

Mary Boren