The cobbled path, my path to home,
the pitter-pat of rain on stone,
the knotted door, the worn-out brass,
the loggy thump, the denting rasp.
The soggy mat, inside at last,
the beaten windows, rain on glass,
the water boiled, the gentle fire,
the padded chair will host retire.
The mâchéd news, words laced with rain;
at least the sport has gone unscathed.
The Grandfather’s Grandfather’s Grandfather’s clock;
past resonates through tick n’ tock.
And so I give you my evening scene:
a man, his house n’ a cup of tea.
The steamy sweetness warms my heart,
and, as evening fades, my thoughts depart.