A poem
Eight miles and twenty years or so off the beaten track,
Forest Lodge became our world for a time,
each room a different hue in the palette of our day.
In the orange warmth of the lounge, care-worn sofas were
the children’s refuge from a scalding lava-carpet and
our refuge from the creeping aches awarded by years.
The cool cream kitchen housed a well-oiled machine
remorselessly feeding our joyful gluttony, while
the deep red glow of familiar bonds fed our hungry souls.
Spring in the steps of the children threw into sharp relief
the red and gold Autumn glory so vibrant in fertile lives
redolent with rebirth and the wisdom of Summers.
Anchored by so many Octobers, our multicoloured threads
had become a rich tapestry screaming glory to the world,
whispering “thank you” to the one who is weaving still.
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