The end of the week
would see me fly,
a get back to home
which I love dear,
mind not the heat and sun,
I die to see my home,
the trees and plants in a row
flutter and bow,
the people who work for me
the milkman, the newspaper vendor,
the grocer and the postman,
not to miss anyone
greet with a warm smile,
their eyes glow with joy.
A few days more to wait.
Back in my home, I will
be. The bed and the chair
beckon me. I will pass my fingers
through the folds. The grandfather
clock will chime with joy. The paintings
need dusting , the brass artifacts
a polish, the tapestries a wash
the floors a gentle mop, while the furniture
has to be rubbed to regain lustre.
All these are a tuppence, home coming
being a rejuvenation of mind and feel.