They tell tales of a home place,

Which was here so long ago,

In what was once a clearing,

The “pineys” that now grow.

All that remains,

Where the flowers nod and bloom,

Is the old rock foundation,

And the spring house in the gloom.

There are bits of broken crockery,

That testify of use,

Near the cellar which fell in,

From neglect and not abuse.

An orchard inundated,

Now with brambles, briers and brush,

That once was full of laughter bright,

Now only knows the thrush.

A leaning post with hinges,

Marks where the gate once hung,

Upon which many children,

In spite of reprimands once swung.

And past the gate once stood a barn,

Now crumbled into loam,

The team and a milk cow,

Once called the place a home.

The only record of their being here,

To show for them now,

Some rusted shoes lost from the mules,

And a bell from the last cow.

What happened to the family,

Who once called the place their home?

What cause them to turn their backs on it,

To leave it and to roam?

Was it the ever steady march of progress,

Or the desire to have more?

Easier ways beyond the ridge top,

Beyond the cabin’s door?

Perhaps a world weary doughboy,

Came back to his family,

And couldn’t stay upon the farm,

After having seen Paree.

It’s likely that he never dreamed,

That there would come a day,

That his children’s children’s children,

Would long for the home place far away.

A longing now for simpler days,

And far simpler times,

For a cabin, barn, and spring house,

And some “pineys” in the pines.

Note: In the part of Kentucky from which I’m from, peonies are most often pronounced “pineys” or at least they were pronounced that way by the old folks when I was a boy.