At the turn of the lane, hush of trees close about, a house, your house, set down quiet in the cul of the sac, hidden and whole. Porch chairs waiting, rocking to and fro with no hand, a welcome in the stillness. Inside then, bright spill of light through the nook window, floor glimmer clean, boards set in line, walls fresh painted, a scent of newness, a promise. Granite stone cool under the hand, steel gleam of stove and sink, where the morning would fall soft, silvering, on bread and tea. Rooms for the telling of stories, for laughter, for silence. The one by the hall with its broad glass, what would it be? A room of play, a den, a parlor, or a bed for mother or father, when they come and stay. Fire crackle, a glow for the cold nights, the family gathered about. Steps rising, the stair rail curving, the upper hall open to the air below, like a breath let out. And there, the foyer, high and tall, a window spilling brightness, the light falling down and down, filling all, an air of wideness and welcome. And the chamber for rest, broad bed, bath of water deep for the soaking of limbs, the mirrors doubled, twin sinks, glass for the shower, closet wide and waiting. Laundry close, so no weary carrying up, down. Outside then again, the deck set against the wood, green and dark, voices carried out, the hush of pines and the song of evening. Near to the sea, near to the gate, near to the shore where boats are cast in. But here, apart, private, quiet, your place, your home.
