Poem. A house, A Home.

Our old house stood in a dip,
With a pond in front of it,
With a fence across the middle
And a Sally tree, hollow inside,
That's where the ducks eggs would hide.
In winter time the water froze over,
And we would stand at the edge
Tentively holding hands,
In case the ice cracked,
The worst that happened
We would fall on our backs.
In summer, out came the old tin bath,
Joyce and I used it as a raft,
Round and round we'd go
Even though, it was liable to sink!
At the back of our house
Up the hill, mushrooms grew
And with a will, we went picking them.
The lanes running by the house
Were ours to roam, free as the birds
Where no one heard our noise,
It was peace beyond compare,
Living there. No shops, no phone,
Yet it is the place I still
Think of as 'home.'