|Photograph by Ivan Gregg|
Under its heavy brows of thatch
The house sits, sulky and squat,
Hunched against the winter storms,
Hiding from the summer heat.
Sheltered by a busy hawthorne hedge,
Smudgy white, broad bean flowers
Rub shoulders with crimson peonies.
Beetroot grows beside sweet scented pinks.
The rising sun shines at the back door.
And winds blow in from the Steppes.
A black range scowls at the floor
While the dinner struggles to cook.
Aunt Jinny skins and cleans
Snared rabbits, to make a pie
And I cannot ride home on my bike,
After drinking her sweet damson wine.
Evening light rests in the parlour
Crammed with stiff horsehair sofa,
Hard wooden chairs, a round table,
A few china ornaments and tears.