Thick old, solid stone, grey as Father Time’s beard, topped with a thatched short back and sides. Square leaded windows look yonder, and see the haywain stalled after the heavy rains. Smoke rises, but carefully, through the tall stovepipe hat up into the English sky: grey, blue, or patched white with lonely clouds, never quite able to make up its mind.
A chocolate box mirage of domestic bliss, cosy family corners, evening Scrabble and the smell of slow cooking casserole on the range. This remains a place of tangled memories, as most small spaces are, home bitter-sweet home, a hearth around a roaring fire, but the sound of the belt still echoing on dismal Sunday afternoons, beyond the reach of the church bells.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com