In a very old part of Cabbage Town.
On a very old narrow street.
There is a very old cottage
With rooms enfilade.
Wiggly, piggly creaking narrow staircases going up and down.
Nothing is new. Nothing is perfect.
Everything sublimely shabby with inherited memories.
Beautifully worn chairs gossip in a corner.
Tables polished by generations of loving care.
Fire crackles and sparks glinting off gold on leather bound books.
Everywhere on every wall paintings and photographs.
Three ancient Oriental paintings adorn the dining room wall.
Geishas I think as I slide into the pictures and listen to temple bells.
A yellow japaned Chinoise desk whispers secrets.
Letters wrapped round with faded ribbons.
Faded photographs pictures from the past.
The little house folds its sheltering walls around you.
These walls hold all the yesterdays, todays and promises of tomorrows.
This little cottage in Cabbage Town.