A farm labourers cottage
Just two up, two down,
Streets, roads lanes, twisty
Country miles from any town.
Black leaded Yorkist Range
For the cooking and the heat,
Scrubbed farmhouse table
Where we'd all sit and eat.
Brick copper in the kitchen
Steaming proudly away,
Dolly tub, dolly stick, posher
Every weekly wash day.
Just yards from the Church
And the old burial ground
Encircled by the trees as if
Guarding each grave's mound.
Each morning I would listen,
To their whisper rustle and creak
Seeming never ever to be still,
A solemn but chatty little clique.
A constant background murmur
That seemed to flow and spread
To include me in their gossip
Warm and snug in my bed.
An almost mystical experience
To start each single day
A sort of enchanted stillness
As the trees chatted away.
There was always birdsong
Which I suppose would please
But for me the joy was to listen
To those singing, talking trees.
Just a farm labourer's cottage,
Town twisty country miles away,
Considered barely adequate
By the standards of today,
But, wealth isn't just possession
Not everybody got the pleasure
Of lying listening to my trees
Moments I'll always treasure.
