With a very humble nod to W.B. Yeats


The heavy scent of wild garlic fills my head
pushing thoughts into cobwebbed corners.
I struggle through the bracken;
the creaking bones of this ancient hill
echoing my own crumbling frame.
Turning toward the river I can see our house;
a freshly painted lemon drop, plopped
into a salad bowl of lush green fields;
pretty blue curtains hang at the windows;
memories stitched into every seam.


Lavender, iris and delphinium
jostle for space in the little cottage garden;
a thin wisp of smoke escapes the red brick chimney.
I picture you, sat by the crackling fire;
a book in your lap yet eyes half-closed,
lost in a thought of a moment long past.


A stiff Nor-westerly whips up from nowhere
slapping silver strands against my face.
and soon, the stinging rain arrives.
Paint peels and parched yellow skin reveals
a grey undercoat;
shutters bang and clatter in the wind
as tattered drapes flap and catch
on rusty nails and splintered wood;
weeds smother flowers; their serpent-like tendrils
strangling tender beauty.


Today, there is no peace, there is no colour, there is no smoke.


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