Sheeba’s Cottage

It stood, ramshackle at the top of Spring Wood,

the gate to keep,

behind which runs the old coach road both cobbled and steep,

that meanders through jaded forest,

toppled wall and silted stream,

a once choreographed example of nature

and a wealthy man’s dream.

I remember not the old man who lived in that small house of stone,

that had no running water,

electricity for light , gas or telephone.

Outside were a few flowers,

pots of herbs and perhaps the odd log,

but I do remember, always there

lying on the grass,

Sheeba his beautiful black dog.