Jun 2018
The sound of the dead,
Make no more a chill,
Than the gentle breeze,
Of a morning draft,
Whispering through,
Ivy covered windows,
of an empty,Thatched roof cottage.
With words,
Sticking like ice,
From the dead lips of the departed owner.
Through hinges that creek their request,
Remember I, Remember.
Make no more a chill,
Than the gentle breeze,
Of a morning draft,
Whispering through,
Ivy covered windows,
of an empty,Thatched roof cottage.
With words,
Sticking like ice,
From the dead lips of the departed owner.
Through hinges that creek their request,
Remember I, Remember.
Written on reflection of my wife's grandmother's "House in the country."
An overgrown remnant of more rural times, miles outside Omagh, N.Ireland.
The air was full of memory and past lives, empty yet warm, haunting not with fear or cold, but a house begging not to be forgotten as the weeds and thistles continue to over run the road and the courtyard.
An overgrown remnant of more rural times, miles outside Omagh, N.Ireland.
The air was full of memory and past lives, empty yet warm, haunting not with fear or cold, but a house begging not to be forgotten as the weeds and thistles continue to over run the road and the courtyard.
