Scenes From An Old House Facing West

In the corner a grand old fireplace sits, and on top talking to it’s old friend
gurgles a burnt black kettle full of dents and a broken handle.

A large pot of hydrangeas on the table stands, and a trail of ants lead to and from a forgotten plate of toast and jam.

A grey and white tabby lays motionless on the couch, and down by the skirting board a mouse is on the lookout for bits of food laying about.

On the wall is a painting of a trees in a field by John Constable, and on the coffee table lays an old leather bound King James Bible.

The old house faces west for reasons unknown. It catches not much sun at all, but tis warm inside which makes it a home.

Up on the ceiling a spiders cobweb catches a ladybird for dinner, and down by a grand four poster bed kneels a tearful sinner.

Behind the door a coat rack stands, full of fur coats, scarves and a selection of hats.

In the roof and in the walls the copper piping taps and rattles, and in the kitchen a jar of tomato sauce falls off the shelf and splatters on the floor.

A love letter lies unfinished on the desk, and down on the carpet the pen bleeds ink in a dark, unsightly mess.

At the kitchen door beneath the stack of firewood a snake awakes and tastes the air, and in the garden a group of hens search for worms and bugs.

Ivy creeps up the west wall near the sun room, and overhead a flock of ducks fly past in an unsteady “V”

On the table “An Essay on Criticism” sits open at page fifty-two, and the key to the back door hides patiently under the mat.