Destination Home
He walked along the tree-lined lane,
his destination, home.
As he walked, the sights of spring,
gave greater urge to roam.
Each happy, fragrant day of spring,
the little boy would roam.
Always seeking what life would bring,
straying, often, far from home.
The tree-lined lane, now lush with green,
as summer days grew long,
was traveled more, yet rarely seen
as the young man hurried home.
Too busy to appreciate
the summer flowers' bloom,
he dare not risk his being late;
today, he is the groom.
The leaves on trees along the lane
were slowly turning red.
The young man's son has now come home
and hurries off to bed.
The man now walks with his grandson,
each autumn day so dear.
More precious now, the time to roam,
as winter days grow near.
The trees along the lane are bare,
the old man walks alone.
No hurry now, he'll soon be there;
his destination, home.
Learn more about this author, Barbara Stanley.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.
Below are the top articles rated and ranked by Helium members on:
Destination Home
He walked along the tree-lined lane,
his destination, home.
As he walked, the sights of spring,
gave greater
I took time for granted
because I'd invented
a clever little machine.
Painstakingly painted
a pitiful patchwork
No time...
to start over again
my hair's gray and growing thin.
My eyes once bright, now dim,
years too short, time's too slim.
No
Time
Time is such a funny thing
It's here and then it's gone
The things that seemed important then
were not for very long
The
Time
As I sit and survey my life,
I think of all the cliches about time.
It waits for no man, it rolls on, it must
View All Articles on:
Poetry: No time
Add your voice
Know something about Poetry: No time?
We want to hear your view.
Write now!
Featured Partner
1H2O endeavors to create an international network of journalists and media makers with the purpose of generating the ...more
hide