LITTLE HILL HOUSE

Amongst the cluttered chaos of moving home, it’s hard to find a quiet space to write. My cosy little office has been packed up and left behind; I’m now surrounded by boxes, bags, flatpacks gathering dust, creased curtains and disorganized shelves. I find myself staring around at blank walls, all of which stare back at me with the same expression. As my new writing room begins to take form, I camp out in the living room with my laptop, wrapped in throws and nagged by an itch to write. After looking around hopelessly, I spy my little ceramic tealight house, perched quietly on top of a shelf. I’d forgotten I’d put that there. The light glimmers across the glaze on the roof of the house, twinkling at me, inviting me in. Here’s Little Hill House, a short poem based on the story hiding inside my tealight holder. Who knows, it may turn into a new book…

The little grey house on the little grey hill

Stands quietly watching below.

But what’s inside that little grey house

Is something nobody knows.

From its stout chimney pots to the window box,

Its secrets are kept inside.

An enchanting warmth surrounds its walls,

I wonder why nobody’s tried.

Will a light ever flicker from behind that door?

What’s under that mushroom-roof?

One day I’ll head up that little grey hill

To discover the mysterious truth.

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