The Wee House on the Knoll

The Wee House on the Knoll

photo gemma hill

On a grassy knoll in Donegal stands a cottage solid
As the rocks that keeps its back warm
Against the Atlantic squalls
From its elevated seat like the kings of old
It guards the breaking waves that wash its feet

Its windows space of small square glass
Like two sparkling eyes
Catch the first rays of the new morn
And give thanks to the setting sun at end of day

Its sturdy door of timber peppered by the changing seasons
Opens upon grassy dunes
Where lovers linger
Released from the toils of their labours
Entwine their arms and steal a kiss
In the sanctuary of tall grasses
That sways and whispers of romantic allurement

The sturdy walls within
Mark time when building stone upon stone
Created shelter for a family one hundred year ago
Let it rain
Let it shine
The house inside still warm and welcoming

There was a time in the turf light of the open grate
Neighbours gathered round and fiddlers plucked a tune that
Set the feet of the Childers dancing
And the stories told as the fire settled in the grate
Set their young hearts aquivering with fright

Then to bed their heads filled with ghostly tales
Of headless horsemen
And the Devils Claw
On the dance hall floor when couples were curfuffling

It was a plucky child who dared to doubt
The ominous creaks and sighs of the old cottage as
The white faced moon riding high above the thatcher’s roofing
Leered in the window at them
Like hens in a coop they buried their heads
Well beneath the bed’s blankets
And slept cheek to jowl in fright…
Until the next night

The aroma of scone bread baking
On the bellied black pot on the hook
Infrequently greets the visitor in the wee cottage now
But no less a welcomes awaits
The stranger when the tea is brewed and passed around

Against rising wind that chase the clouds across the sky
And steals the blue from overhead
Prayers are offered
For fishermen at their work upon the sea

The wee cottage watches and waits for their safe return
Heart-rending long dead voices breathe words
From its old stone walls
Tragedy has walked here before they say.

The wee house has had its centenary
100 years it stands
Wearing a fresh coat of white trimmed with black
Its heart like its stout door opens to new generations
Of house travellers

Without looking over its shoulder it
Forgoes the candle and the lamp
And embraces powerful magical electricity
Out of darkness into light
It stands on its grassy slope
Firm and resolute
Its main purpose unchanged since it foundation stone
The first slab was laid
A home… haven
A place to shelter
From life’s storms in sunshine and showers

Gemma Hill© 2019