Home by Elizabeth Henry

I have a cottage thin and tall,

With peeling paint upon the wall.

A plenitude of hoary rooms,

Beside a garden steeped in blooms.

 

And aged sink, its surface chipped;

A line of bunting, faded, ripped;

A capering fire of fulgent gold;

A smudge of damp; a dab of mould.

 

A rough-hewn dresser, decked in plates;

An antique settle; wooden crates;

A table, with a hole or two;

A wonky seat upon the loo.

 

A hefty tub, to soothe my back;

A wireless that’s a Union Jack;

A squashy mattress, satin quilt;

A chiselled headboard that’s well built.

 

A Pantry door of pastel pink

Hides jars and bottles, food and drink.

A mixing bowl with painted chicks;

A bucket full of kindling sticks.

 

A statue with a torn straw hat;

An old church pew, a dozing cat;

A willow wigwam, peas and beans;

A deckchair, splitting at the seams.

 

A gut of buxus, clipped and shaped;

Some linen curtains loosely draped;

A floorboard, which will reel and rock,

Beneath a German cuckoo clock.

 

Some incense and an oil lamp too;

Some Pukka tea, to meld a brew;

A brimming bookshelf, stacked with tat;

A hardback classic, bent and cracked.

 

My home is rustic, verdant, lush.

It’s cushy, quirky, spared from rush.

It’s timeless and it’s fancy-free –

The prefect place for me to be!