The Baby Knows Its Home


Goldilocks found the bears’ home

And tried to suit herself there.

Red Riding Hood trudged the woods

To find her grandma’s home.

Cinderella was made princess

By a fairy visiting her foster home

Only to give her a dream home.

Hansel and Gretel left home

To be brought back home with more love.

Rapunzel was taken away from home

To a tower that showed her a new home.

So the baby knows one starts from home

By daylight perhaps, and returns home

By twilight or star-light.

 

A little lass thinks of a home

She may help build as she cuddles

Her little doll or cooks with relish

With toy utensils over an imaginary fire.

A waif in the streets would pick up twigs

And splinters of wood to make her game

Of simulating home and kitchen as she

Watches a maid in tatters  beside her.

The modern feminist instructor preaches

To a bedevilled audience of the humbug

That feminine instinct is, and slams

The whole blame on patriarchy. She forgets

There was chemistry long, long before

A patriarch arrived in a prehistoric den.

 

The girl sees her mother bustling around,

Or rues she has no mother to fuss over her.

Less fortunate ones ardently wish

To be the thing they once missed.

The treats on the table and quilts on the bed,

Rich or low or inferior, would mean but the home

Making burning or smouldering homefires

Worth a million festive lights.

The girl would scarce wait to grow

To don the apron of a mother’s care.

 

Home is no structure– just a sensation.

It is vital as the air and water.

The baby crawling on the dirty floor

Of a shack or hovel feels like a lord

Who knows he won’t be spurned

As in aristocratic well-mowed lawns

Where the rich frown at his unscrubbed face

And convulse at his unkempt hair.

 

Home is where fancy flies highest

Without fear of falling or drowning,

Where one need not fear the silence

Of the court, and frolics and prances

Like a colt.

 

 

 

 

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