Your pink painted doors catch my eye.
You would suit me fine (if I could break out a window here or there),
let some light in, on my writing table.
Hens out front I think.
Barnevelders (double laced) welsummers or Faverolles,
calm and heavy,
no escape artists please.
(Those polish bantams are the limit)
I’ll be too busy writing to chase you lot down some boithrin.
Yeat’s nine bean rows I’ll have here,
and a hive for that bee.
Two apple tree’s, one pear,
A cherry too?
A single row of spuds?
(more if my back is able).
and speaking of backs, behind the house theres a fine space
for a milking goat.
I would lay the fire from broken branches,
and maybe a sod or two of turf.
(Once when camping in a wild place someone left me a bag of the stuff,
I suspect the bachelor farmer who lived up the boreen)
The smell of apple blossom will make me lift my head and drop my pencil,
draw me outside.
to gather warm eggs.
I’d work ‘en plein air’,
(dinner would consist of beans, potato and an egg)
And ‘warm goats milk’ I hear you enquire?
Nope I’ll settle for wine.
and after, swim drunkenly in the nearby lake.
Honey would furnish my bread.
With fresh goats cheese
And the last of the beans, a nourishing stew.
What made you come around again so soon.