Tucked in a cluster of trees,
The cottage hides from the walking lane,
Flint-bricked on a wheatened hill,
Crowned by an English rood.
Looking north,
An ancient fort moated by knurled oak,
Where once centurions stood, clenched against the wind,
Plumed in the shade to greet the dawn with fear.
On the south,
Nymphs and a scaled garden,
Foliation's and stems and tarragon and thyme,
Its own Byzantium,
Hedged in the patient simplicity of sun.
Within the cottage,
Musick and an oil-lit fantasy of suites,
Plucked wingless among the old bricks,
A tracery of eaves, and shuttered windows,
All veiled in a brush of trees,
Where the fire and the rose are one.
Keith Treacher 1997
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