The Hill House

There is a house that sits
Between the wing beat of bats,
The ovation of tawny owls,
The velvet pawprints of cats.
Inside the whispering of fairies
high above the bed,
The sigh of a sleeping dragon,
The books that must be read.
Within the gentle sound of laughter,
The muffled hum of a radio,
The scent of breakfast starting,
The savoured taste of local ale,
The feel of frosted glass on your fingertips,
The magic of marmalade fire
The emergency bottle of cabernet.
And the view spread over the valley
In a sunlit summer’s dawn.

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4 responses to “The Hill House

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