Remember the days of wheat stacked sheaves,
The old thatched cottage, in a cluster of trees,
Rambling roses trailing a picket fence,
In your garden, a well, where the water is fresh.
A cobble-stoned path meandered its way,
To an open door, here a welcome mat lay.
Home cooked scones wafted on the air,
While an old tom-cat snoozed in its chair,
Bright coloured rugs scattered on the floor,
Warm and cosy, in the wildest storm.
A pantry full of preserves and jam,
Jellies, spices and home cured ham.
Out of sight, but not out of reach,
Butter-churns, whitened with bleach.
Inside once more, a kettle on the hob,
Where fires are fuelled by a big back log.
In this homely, friendly place,
There’s warmth in your body and a smile on your face.
Hilda Oakley
