Rusty bucket and broken pot,

Midst nettles with fierce sting,

Wooden spade handle, soft with rot,

From another age each thing.

Cottage ruins, tumbled now,

Barely a trace is seen,

But I can well remember how,

It looked, in it's prime, I mean.

Long and low with roof of thatch,

Windows square but small,

Walls of cob, an iron catch,

On the door through the sturdy wall.

My heart is there where once I grew,

Surrounded by my family,

Each nook and secret place I knew,

In that place so dear to me.

The door to the well is broken,

Brambles cast prickly shade,

As I gaze, not a word is spoken,

My home, where memories were made!

~Sidda~

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