The Cottage

This old Welsh cottage,
That I sit in all alone,
Separating me
With it’s thick walls of river stone,
As I solitary write.

No wife is here to cheer me.
No friends to knock
Upon my door.
No work to make the time pass faster,
Upon a crowded factory floor.

I feel so tired and listless as I sit here.
My feelings come like echoes
From damp walls.
Yet I must find relief from empty feelings
Before an hour passes and night falls.

The tiny garden
Calls for my attention.
The brambles have a stranglehold
From path to tree.
I take the cutters to relieve my tension,
The hacking and the cutting set me free.
The next door neighbour’s children
Run past laughing.
I see their joy shine out
And smile too.

The neighbour shakes my hand.
He’s pleased to see me.
He says the cottage has a lovely view.
I’m pulling weeds out now,
And feeling warmed right through.

A young girl cycles by
She waves to me and I wave too.
I trim the hedge back from the roadway.
The farm dog up the road
Comes down to play.
I throw the stone for him,
He brings it,
And I know that he would play all day.

I go indoors again
And put the tools back.
The cottage feels a warm
And cosy place.
An interwoven part of this whole village,
A haven shaped by every smiling face.

Copyright ©2001 Tony Crisp