the cottage is warmly lit against the early darkness of an autumn night;
as i silently slip past, i notice the silhouette of stickers on new window panes.
and for a moment heartache pierces keen as i picture myself inside instead,
belonging to the house and it to me —
trailing my fingers along worn wooden rails,
dancing over the creaks in the floor,
watching the sun rise and fall on the walls,
inhaling the scents of a hundred other years and lives and memories.
yes, heartache pierces, for a moment.
and then it is passed,
and i am around the bend in the road,
and drive on.
