The HOUSE

Photo:  ‘House’, Middx. England – WHB 2020

 

A house is just a house
When it tells you that it is.

 

A house becomes a home
When it shows you that it is. 

 

 

Amen Corner

A house in which to end my days.
Goodbye it says to all,
For here at last I am content
Behind my garden wall.

The name I gave it says it all,
How still, at peace, and blessed,
How glad am I to know such joy,
To be by love possessed.

That final farewell anthem,
When it is heard at last,
Will sound around these humble walls
Where present meets the past.

For I have lived a life I loved,
Loved the path I’ve trod.
Amen was written on my heart
In this my House of God.

A Devon Cottage, England

 

THE BLACK HOUSE

‘The Black House’ … This house still stands in a North Yorkshire country town – tarred in black still, as it has been for at least the past 100 years. Photo – WHB 2016

The house stood alone
beside the beck
its walls pitched in black
ebony
against the skyline
tarred
against the weather
cold and dark
somehow so sinister
but housing
a family of seven

Fortunes told
fortunes lost
life’s foragers
five kids
one my age
runny nosed urchins
unwashed
unabashed
‘Throwers of words
As they did stones’

Banned from playing with
such snot- noses
yet,
from time to time
I did
their home a dark place
a cluttered life
midst the family debris
best left undisturbed

Mused
amused
and yet afraid
in such alien space
I shrivelled
and fretted

Only outdoors
in the wood-burn
tarred
air of their yard
there was a happiness
I could recognise
participate in
hiding in the woodpile
humping logs
to build a den
sticks
goading the dog
encouraging
the excitement of his barks
teasing the tangled
knotted
sheepdog blackness
of  his coat
loving the illicit thrills
on offer at
The Black House

Before running
the beck-side wall
to return to
my own good fortune
warm and bright
fire
forge
and furnace –
Red
Not Black.

The Beck