Wildenblue Farm Journal

WINTER EVENING

The crib stock fothered, horses suppered up,

And cows in sheds all littered down in straw,

The threshers gone, the owls are left to whoop,

The ducks go waddling with distended craw

Through little hole made in the hen-roost door,

And geese with idle gabble never o`er

Bait careless hog until he tumbles down,

Insult provoking spite to noise the more;

While fowl high-perched blink with contemptuous frown

On all the noise and bother heard below;

Over the stable-ridge in crowds,the crow,

With jackdaws intermixed, known by their noise,

To the warm woods behind the village go;

And whistling home for bed go weary boys.

                                John Clare (1793 - 1864)

Home is the place that goes where you go,

yet it welcomes you upon your return. Like

 a dog overjoyed at the door. We've missed 

you is what you hear, no matter how long

 you've been gone.

                                 ~ Michael J. Rosen, Home

A recipe for you... click to enlarge

The wintry hedge was black;

         The green grass was not seen;

                The birds did rest

                On the bare thorn’s breast,

Whose roots, beside the pathway track,

Had bound their folds o’er many a crack

                Which the frost had made between.

                                      ~Percy Bysshe Shelley

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home