The house was old it’s thatched roof askew,
and pigeons did rule the loft.
Two hundred years since it was new,
wattled and daubed next to Blackwell’s croft.

Its garden still bequeaths its brightest flowers
to adorn Saint Michaels church.
The alter wreathed with it’s scented bowers,
the pews bedecked with Silver Birch.

The ancient well gives of its water clear
to fill the Saxon bowl.
And with tilted head a child held dear
is wetted to save its soul.

It’s apple trees still bear Russet fruit
in the season of the year.
The small round pond where swims the newt,
and frogs in courtship you hear.

At night when owls do glide on silent wing,
black bats do sally forth.
A child’s old swing swayed gently by the wind,
cooled by snows to the north.

The old house stood in proud defiant stance,
its windows no longer lit
by smoking lamp, and fire lights merry dance
where once the young did sit.

Its future for years once held in ambiguous doubt
as the curious came to view.
Until a young bride, excited did in silent shout
foresaw its future anew.

The house now restored to its former proud glory,
its windows curtained bright.
Podmoors Thatch, oft seen in pictured book story
when firelight holds back the night.

Two hives in the garden are full of sweet honey.
The bees having played their part,
For the bride who restored the house not with money,
but with the love she held in her heart.