Hedges now curtain the window where she looked from her home to the mill,
and, in winter, when varnished leaves are falling, their colours decorate it's once scrubbed sill.
The old man walking his Jack dog, you passed along the lane,
no longer travels this far, nor ever will again.
Old bones harness willpower but the mind races on ahead
and sees for itself the mist rising, and the old woman long since from her bed.
Then, as a sun-nursed, skittish young field boy
he toiled for a few treasured coppers in the ancient woman's employ;
trimmed the hedge that now drapes the window, kept the lawn neat to the welcoming door,
where grass now carpets the kitchen's dirt floor.
One chimney pours forth Jakdaw fledglings as wild flowers blaze in the crumbling hearth.
A russet stain on the stones of the outhouse, all that is left of the old zinc bath.
A roof no longer keeps out the suns glow, nor the star splashed picture of night
and whenever the cleansing rains flow, old stones shimmer bright.
Butterflies jest in the pantry, scurry on through to the hall
and there, when the Buzzard is circling, greet refugee seekers hurriedly come to call.
Decorated after natures fashion, with vibrant colours in spring,
the cottage still offers its welcome and its walls of its history sing.
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Cuttlebone and Cobwebs
ŞiirThe beauty of everything from in the land sea and sky from Cuttlebones to Cobwebs
