Sweeping fields outlined by stonewalls,
Lakes District, but I can’t remember many lakes.

The Sun remained veiled by a grey mist,
Hiding us, wrapped in its blanket.

Or like a canvas for our imaginations
To run wild and to paint make believe.

Hair tucked under wool hats
I became one of the boys.

I carried a tall wood stick as they did
But I cared for that haven too.

The broom leaning in the corner,
And it was all given a place, everything named.

Our little world where we had a house,
The fenced in spaces where sheep had once kept,
Maybe chickens, perhaps a cow.

Scarves around necks and fingerless gloves,
Our faces smiling, bitten by the cold.

A softly burning ember of love,
Peace, contentment, adventure, creation,
That place was ours.
Ours to create,
Ours to live.

The cold and the wind and the grey mist
Always seemed to be there
But never did they hold to be unpleasant or unkind.

It was like we had strayed into a fairytale world
Where time had frozen,
Magic and Mystery hung in the air.

At night, we were beckoned inside
To a room with lights and sheets and stoves.

A bed tucked away, I had my own nook
By a window where
I could see the gravel dirt road,
I could see the rolling hills and stonewalls beyond,
I could see the far off District,
And I could see our haven.

A shelf by my window,
Did it hold a place for my doll?

That doll I had thought I’d use
Yet it stayed on its ledge all day.

I had built its home, a room, a place,
A ledge of its own and left it…

Hair tucked under a wool hat,
Wooden staff and rushing desire,
I’d gone to make a place of my own.