Lotmans Cottage

The dark wooden door is swollen

fattened on rain.

I throw myself against it

swearing as the wreath nail punctures my skin

a squeal and groan consoles me.

I am in, a wave greets me.

David’s wellies, caked in pig muck

roast dinner, beef with Yorkshires

a hint of Anais Anais and Mum,

Little cat Will, kneading  with pins,

on the sheepskin throw.

Reviews

[Toni Blackerby]

i love the way u write so keep it up hun