Poem by Lawrence Coe's Niece

MEMORIES ARE MADE OF THIS

I haven't travelled many miles
Cross the land and sea,
But there's one place in the World I know,
That means so much to me.

It is my own old English Home
And the village where in it lies,
The meadows green and the ploughed fields brown
And above all these - blue skies.

The old fashion Church
With God's garden around,
The old fashioned porch - quite bare,
Birds singing all day are the only sound,
So it seem so peaceful there.

Down to The Avenue now I'll walk
Under the Lime trees tall,
And across the meadow I can see
The grey stoned vicarage wall.

Go further a field and there I find,
Nestling in the old village street,
Altered now, but once was a pub
Where the menfolk chose to meet.

At the top of the road I have my choice
Which way I would like to wander,
The views around are quiet and calm,
On these for a while, I ponder.

Now all this to you may not seem much,
But now I cannot roam,
It is the truth what's in the song
There is no place like home.

© Ruby Rowe 2003