"thatch" poems
♪♫♪♪
Your beaded snakeskin loincloth
strung beneath humid palms
cool rippling breeze that calms
our hammock hung under thatch
what a catch . . .
your Amazons running into my Congo
lost track of my bongo
back about one mile
from the sources of the Nile:
your jungle smile.
Restoring all celestial things
deep within your tropical clearings . . .
flowing slowly, going loco
at the mythic mouth of the Orinico;
shake your nut-brown biospheres
and banish all my worldly fears.
Dusk is nearing — clearing the hill
insects trilling a sinuous thrill;
the yuca half-mashed in the clay ***
the witch doctor hungover in his hut
while our little fire smolders
near the mountains of the moon
—or are they only boulders?
Come soon
Jesus, Lord of the Jungle . . .
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
In a happy reign there should be no hermits;
The wise and able should consult together....
So you, a man of the eastern mountains,
Gave up your life of picking herbs
And came all the way to the Gate of Gold --
But you found your devotion unavailing.
...To spend the Day of No Fire on one of the southern rivers,
You have mended your spring clothes here in these northern cities.
I pour you the farewell wine as you set out from the capital --
Soon I shall be left behind here by my bosomfriend.
In your sail-boat of sweet cinnamon-wood
You will float again toward your own thatch door,
Led along by distant trees
To a sunset shining on a far-away town.
...What though your purpose happened to fail,
Doubt not that some of us can hear high music.
9.9k
Look back with longing eyes and know that I will follow,
Lift me up in your love as a light wind lifts a swallow,
Let our flight be far in sun or blowing rain—
But what if I heard my first love calling me again?
Hold me on your heart as the brave sea holds the foam,
Take me far away to the hills that hide your home;
Peace shall thatch the roof and love shall latch the door—
But what if I heard my first love calling me once more?
5.2k
When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round,
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the **** hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
5.1k
In the slant of the sun on the country-side,
Cattle and sheep trail home along the lane;
And a rugged old man in a thatch door
Leans on a staff and thinks of his son, the herdboy.
There are whirring pheasants, full wheat-ears,
Silk-worms asleep, pared mulberry-leaves.
And the farmers, returning with hoes on their shoulders,
Hail one another familiarly.
...No wonder I long for the simple life
And am sighing the old song, Oh, to go Back Again.
4.7k
This is too far,
I know I’ve gone too far.
As if the light of day were enough to wake
my dormant wit,
But I know it’s not.
My children lay dead. My wife lies cold and still.
How long I sit in silence
I can’t know.
My arms are lifeless weights along my sides,
My hands are crusted
With my family’s blood.
I cannot know the horrors of last night,
Echoes of screams
And a rage not my own
Are all that I can manage to produce.
At last I gather
their once warm bodies
and lay them down beneath the high noon sun.
Our house is now a broken shell,
Much like me.
The door hangs from a single copper hinge
A parody of
my fragile mind.
No windows remain, only empty holes
Beneath a partially
collapsed thatch roof.
I fall to my knees and begin to dig,
Every handful of dirt
Is agony
To my shattered hands, I welcome the pain.
I dig the hole
wide and deep to fit them.
At last, my greatest fear has come.
The grief arrives,
and bears down upon my chest.
I lower my children first into the ground.
And kiss their brows,
holding each, one last time.
My tears raining down on their broken bodies.
I gather my wife
And softly place her
Alongside our children.
I kiss her lips
And whisper all my thoughts
Into her beautiful deaf ears. I moan
And heave, tasting
salt and earth and blood.
“Bring me death if you have any mercy!”
I shout to the clouds
and blue above.
I wait for death but there is no reply.
Gods do not answer
pleas of the insane
I ask for their forgiveness one last time
And heap the earth
Onto my happiness.
I walk away towards nowhere, anywhere
But this place where
My murdered family lies.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
There once was a little thatch cottage,
With little happy children,
A little green garden,
And a perfect little family.
Then the little children's father
Got cancer and died.
And the perfect little family
In the little thatch cottage,
Was not so perfect anymore.
The little children grew up,
And soon moved away.
And the little children's mother,
Now a little old lady,
Was a little more lonely.
The little old lady
Then passed away,
In the little thatch cottage.
No one lived there again.
The little thatch cottage,
Got surrounded by the forest,
Then was struck by lightening,
And burned to the ground.
The little thatch cottage,
Is now no more.
Nature has taken it.
And it will never be returned.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 3:37 PM UTC
My grandparent's house
ten-kid-large and sinking
on the corners of remembrance
Remodeled now, to
...tenements
Honeycomb
...the remnants
Irish immigrant and Scottish orphan's child
She sang on the ferry
He fell in love
"The rest is the history of us...."
Wide
as the Connecticut River, grieving--
in their sunset....
________________
This-- chair
is his
I am afraid of it-- of his learning
of the shiny badge pinned to his coat
of his dying...
Golden leather of it
soothes
his memory--
of another continent
of the once warmth-- of a distant hearth
so darkened now--
where his head once rested
...his hands
and,
I fear--
his mind....
I will not sit in it
as if he will come back, to take his place
I am afraid of him--
with his chair--
all worshipful and empty
like a high place, abandoned
to the heart attack
not for grandchild play
Seat of Authority
still stamped
beside the standing cold--
brass ashtray
Pipe smoke imagines itself
against the ceiling in the words
of Yates and Milton
He read to them
and somehow--
Paradise is Lost....
_______________
This house is cold now-- even in the summer-- cold
Worn as only large families wear
The War
of waiting shadows
--four brothers who were spared
Anna Mae, in charge, too young,
worries in abrupt dark
of dinning room
Her face, haunted--
an archway-- ever empty
by the large and ghostly table
covered by its web of lace--
a bridal veil
of Catholic impossibility...
Anna Mae, held hostage by her thoughts
of darling, Sean...
Aunt Lil's “breakdown”
with cigarette and thorazine
quaking quiet in her corner
Aunt Nell,
as blind as ******** hell
ironing, darning
with threads that thatch
the wounded socks
Holds it all together, scolding--
Brought the welcomed jelly donuts
sneered as Yankees clobbered Boston
all-- while drinking yellow ale
Uncle Eddie-- laughing hoarsely
cracks nuts over a wooden bowl
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC
Father and Mother, and Me,
Sister and Auntie say
All the people like us are We,
And every one else is They.
And They live over the sea,
While We live over the way,
But-would you believe it?—They look upon We
As only a sort of They!
We eat pork and beef
With cow-horn-handled knives.
They who gobble Their rice off a leaf,
Are horrified out of Their lives;
While they who live up a tree,
And feast on grubs and clay,
(Isn’t it scandalous? ) look upon We
As a simply disgusting They!
We shoot birds with a gun.
They stick lions with spears.
Their full-dress is un-.
We dress up to Our ears.
They like Their friends for tea.
We like Our friends to stay;
And, after all that, They look upon We
As an utterly ignorant They!
We eat kitcheny food.
We have doors that latch.
They drink milk or blood,
Under an open thatch.
We have Doctors to fee.
They have Wizards to pay.
And (impudent heathen!) They look upon We
As a quite impossible They!
All good people agree,
And all good people say,
All nice people, like Us, are We
And every one else is They:
But if you cross over the sea,
Instead of over the way,
You may end by (think of it!) looking on We
As only a sort of They!
3.2k
Now the rich cherry, whose sleek wood,
And top with silver petals traced
Like a strict box its gems encased,
Has spilt from out that cunning lid,
All in an innocent green round,
Those melting rubies which it hid;
With moss ripe-strawberry-encrusted,
So birds get half, and minds lapse merry
To taste that deep-red, lark’s-bite berry,
And blackcap bloom is yellow-dusted.
The wren that thieved it in the eaves
A trailer of the rose could catch
To her poor droopy sloven thatch,
And side by side with the wren’s brood—
O lovely time of beggar’s luck—
Opens the quaint and hairy bud;
And full and golden is the yield
Of cows that never have to house,
But all night nibble under boughs,
Or cool their sides in the moist field.
Into the rooms flow meadow airs,
The warm farm baking smell’s blown round.
Inside and out, and sky and ground
Are much the same; the wishing star,
Hesperus, kind and early born,
Is risen only finger-far;
All stars stand close in summer air,
And tremble, and look mild as amber;
When wicks are lighted in the chamber,
They are like stars which settled there.
Now straightening from the flowery hay,
Down the still light the mowers look,
Or turn, because their dreaming shook,
And they waked half to other days,
When left alone in the yellow stubble
The rusty-coated mare would graze.
Yet thick the lazy dreams are born,
Another thought can come to mind,
But like the shivering of the wind,
Morning and evening in the corn.
3.1k
sit with me before the dance
in my little thatch hut
on a mat of yellow reeds
together we’ll string
garlands
marigolds, jasmine,
roses
to offer at His petite, azure feet
with glossy red kisses
we’ll serenade our Sri Krishna
weave peacock feathers through His
perfumed tresses
the Yamuna river is lit up with
lotus lanterns and
vrindavan incense
we have adorned ourselves
in the finest silk saris
and red *** *** dots
we are ready with
aching, ardent hearts to
dance with the Lord
come into our eager, hopeful arms
darling Giridhari
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
I ain't goin' back to Maggie's farm no more
To thatch that old black barn
Already done it twice
Done that thing most my life
Someone else's turn now for sure
Ain't gonna work for Maggie's brother don't you see
He'll not be using me
Bought his wife an Aston Martin
For turning forty three
He couldn't even bother
To make a cup of tea
It all seems so appealing
When you're young and fit
Thirty five years later
Feel I've done my bit
Been a faithful servant
Couldn't ask for more
Now I'm looking forward
To the final straw
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
Cauld-bluided, humphing ower the stark grey hills
Gowd een skinkle to an fro
Split tongue lappin at the wind-blown smells
Bog grass blackens whaur ye go
Smoke split shielings and the clammerin o bairns
Bone cracked mithers in yer wake
Heirt-scaud ruin fae the valleys tae the cairns
Driven by a drouth ye canny slake
Crib tale shapit unner creakin heather thatch
Howf born craitur o the nicht
Auld sangs spake aboot the maidens ye would ******
Fleggit bairns tae keep intil the licht
True? Naw, havers, juist the blaflum o wives
God nivver biggit ocht sae fell
But ae bairn crouchin in the ruins o its life
Can think o naethin else the tale tae tell
Blin, lost, forwandert fae the shattered faimly hame
Warslin wi fear tae unnerstan
White winds whistle as he gies the beast a name
And dragons whiles can take the form o man.
Apr 11, 2011
Apr 11, 2011 at 2:39 AM UTC
The maiden of the pumpkin patch,
Glowing softly in her home,
The sky above her, thatch,
And pumpkins below her, throne,
A bright robe of autumn leaves,
Sparkling with the morning's drops of dew,
All around her, protective trees,
Seeming so many, yet, so few,
Her heady scent of earth,
So ancient and divine,
Solemn, still diverse,
My lady of autumn, so wild, yet refined
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
Mariana in the Moated Grange
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The **** sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary
I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then said she, "I am very dreary,
He will not come," she said;
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
Oh God, that I were dead!"
3k
When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,
And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind
Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned
Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,
Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,
Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,—
Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes
My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die,
And will be born again,—but ah, to see
Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!
Oh, Autumn! Autumn!—What is the Spring to me?
2.5k
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
2.4k
Sweet, harmless lives! (on whose holy leisure
Waits innocence and pleasure),
Whose leaders to those pastures, and clear springs,
Were patriarchs, saints, and kings,
How happened it that in the dead of night
You only saw true light,
While Palestine was fast asleep, and lay
Without one thought of day?
Was it because those first and blessed swains
Were pilgrims on those plains
When they received the promise, for which now
’Twas there first shown to you?
’Tis true, He loves that dust whereon they go
That serve Him here below,
And therefore might for memory of those
His love there first disclose;
But wretched Salem, once His love, must now
No voice, nor vision know,
Her stately piles with all their height and pride
Now languished and died,
And Bethlem’s humble cotes above them stepped
While all her seers slept;
Her cedar, fir, hewed stones and gold were all
Polluted through their fall,
And those once sacred mansions were now
Mere emptiness and show;
This made the angel call at reeds and thatch,
Yet where the shepherds watch,
And God’s own lodging (though He could not lack)
To be a common rack;
No costly pride, no soft-clothed luxury
In those thin cells could lie,
Each stirring wind and storm blew through their cots
Which never harbored plots,
Only content, and love, and humble joys
Lived there without all noise,
Perhaps some harmless cares for the next day
Did in their bosoms play,
As where to lead their sheep, what silent nook,
What springs or shades to look,
But that was all; and now with gladsome care
They for the town prepare,
They leave their flock, and in a busy talk
All towards Bethlem walk
To see their souls’ Great Shepherd, Who was come
To bring all stragglers home,
Where now they find Him out, and taught before
That Lamb of God adore,
That Lamb whose days great kings and prophets wished
And longed to see, but missed.
The first light they beheld was bright and gay
And turned their night to day,
But to this later light they saw in Him,
Their day was dark, and dim.
2.3k
Mark this spot on the sun. Do it now.
You have your east minus west and the dead skin from mummified snow...
you must be one of those
Ancient stones, I skip across the altar.
Would you now be altered -
to call forth the fifth drum, the first fife and the long drone ?
If not, do this... shift your weight
to your better angels
and hum -
Some lung-free dirge
in the Demi-corona
of your obstinate
tongue ?
Your purple transcendental flying cow...bovine divine and howitzer quiet -
Shuns the fundamental hopscotch,
the thatch latch and the Kumquat
So surely
there is time enough to
thumb dots
Where your third eye
was last caught
seeming.
Mark my words, or become lost. Do it now.
Or Knot.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
The mountains are cold and blue now
And the autumn waters have run all day.
By my thatch door, leaning on my staff,
I listen to cicadas in the evening wind.
Sunset lingers at the ferry,
Supper-smoke floats up from the houses.
...Oh, when shall I pledge the great Hermit again
And sing a wild poem at Five Willows?
2.2k
Copious amounts of lava
seeping over the table
steaming mugs of java
cutting off the cable.
Rara Avis is a Latin term
no sneakers for me today
eaten by the Conqueror Worm
during the month of May.
Date **** drugs
and Sugar Twin
white punk thugs
chasing Rin-Tin-Tin.
Rainbows of black
babies howling out loud
guerilla attacks
a huge raver crowd.
Windshield wipers
with ribbons attached
little sticky diapers
and gates made of thatch.
Alphagetti monsters
smoking a jay
card-carrying punsters
greasy burgers on a tray.
Cute cotton *******
on lithe little nymphs
disappearing shanties
owned by drugged-up pimps.
Rhymes gone bad
a little cash in my pocket
hanging at the pad
and watching Davy Crockett.
People eating doughnuts
***** up on the beaches
hips that do the low strut
and blood ******* leeches.
It all comes down
to a single final thought:
was the Queen's big crown
really traded for a ***
Aug 4, 2011
Aug 4, 2011 at 11:15 AM UTC
This poem was witten by my godfather Hilair Beloc 1870-1953
When I am living in the midlands
That are sodden and unkind
I light my lamp in the evening
My work is left behind
And the great hills of the South Country
Come back into my mind
The great hills of the South Country
They stand along the sea
And its there walking in the high woods
That I could wish to be
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Walking along with me
The men that live in North England
I saw them for a day
Their hearts are set upon the waste fells
Their skies are fast and grey
From their castle walls a man may see
The mountains far away
The men that live in West England
They see the Severn strong
A rolling on rough water brown
Light aspen leaves along
The have the secret of the rocks
And the oldest kind of song
But the men that live in the South Country
Are the kindest and most wise
They get their laughter from the loud surf
And the faith in their happy eyes
Comes surely from our sister the spring
When over the sea she flies
The violets suddenly bloom at her feet
She blesses us with surprise
I never get between the pines
But I smell the Sussex air
Nor I never come on a belt of sand
But my home is there
And along the skyline of the Downs
So noble and so bare
A lost thing I could never find
Nor a broken thing mend
And I fear I shall be all alone
When I get towards the end
Who will be there to comfort me
Or who will be my friend
I will gather and carefully make my friends
Of the men of the Sussex Weald
They watch the stars from the silent folds
They stiffly plough the fields
By them and the God of the South Country
My poor soul shall be healed
If ever I become a rich man
Or if ever I grow to be old
I will build a house with a deep thatch
To shelter me from the cold
And there shall the Sussex songs be sung
And the story of Sussex told
I will hold my house in the high woods
Within a walk of the sea
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Shall sit and drink with me
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
My friend published a book
of collected Scots Proverbs.
200 pages and more, filled
with countless ways of saying
"Don't show off."
And that precious wisdom,
generations in the making
percolated through smokey thatch
in dismal dripping glens,
Tattooed into tenement bricks
with the soot of dead industry,
added to the diet
with the excess salt and saturated fat,
Paving the roads
on which all ambition travels south,
And fizzing through the lager
on its way to the head
Now hangs around the kids
like the stink around an ashtray
and stifles any pride
they might invest in themselves.
They will pass it on
with their genes
and their endless disappointments,
despising anyone who rises
above the station
at which they are
eternally delayed.
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 4:15 PM UTC
Am a Templar Knight whose allegiance is to Our Lord Jesus Christ
Sir Thomas de Charney is my name, Master of the fortress in Gaza
Was compelled to quill an account of an assault on the town of Ludd
My heart was also dazed and enamored by a young woman evermore
We left Gaza late in the day; I took 40 of my best knights with me
Fully clad in mail and helmets, we dashed long swords in scabbards
Short swords made at the ready to perlustrate with a days provisions
We headed east prepared to do battle, for God and for the cause
We approached Ludd; saw billowing smoke; heard strangled screams
I dispatched 35 knights throughout the municipality in groups of 5 each
My orders were; execute requisite to save townspeople from slaughter
An appurtenance to the initial order: no parley with these infidels
Before dismissing my men, I saw smolder swell left flank of the border
Saw a hovel, the thatch was burning out of control and spreading apace
Around the corner were three enemy soldiers crowding over someone
Until the last few years, I knew not what **** was; the worst in a man
Despite noise of city under siege, these ******** were intoxicated in sin
The remaining five knights accompanied me and covered the perimeter
I dismounted Petra, clutched the hilt of my long sword, made approach
The three heathen sensed my bearing and turned to meet their death
Then I saw her face and was transfixed
I would yield no prisoners
Today there would be justice for this woman
I pray for swiftness of divine retribution
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To be continued…………
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
A bumpy track led to the old cottage. The place hadn't been lived in for quite a while but was intact, a perfect timber-framed Tudor cottage. Even the old thatch didn't leak. Just two rooms downstairs with a small lean-to on the back, the kitchen still had a Dutch oven and an old copper for hot water. A kite-winder staircase followed the central chimney up to two bedrooms.
The place was coming up for auction. Desperately I wanted it. At the auction it made four times what I could afford. The buyer did not move in however. There was a story about him being in prison. At this time the farmers used to dispose of waste straw after combining by burning it in the fields, a practice now banned. That's how the thatch caught alight. There was no attempt to fight the fire because no-one even noticed it. Gales later blew in the gable ends, then the chimney crumbled, brambles grew over it until there was hardly a visible trace of the place left.
I wish I could have saved it. It would have been beautiful. Instead I bought a little terrace, then a detached needing renovation, then the one we have today. I got what I wanted eventually, but I still think about that old place sometimes, and how I wanted it.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 7:24 AM UTC