The old house brought the perspective of passing years in a world that had accelerated beyond sense.
The old roof had protected the house over the ages and would do so for many-a-time to come.
The old house was the best of weathered antiques having hugged that lane from days of horses to days of solar horse-power.
The old house with its centuries settled foundations brought feeling of welcome to the landscape.
The old house was golden stone in golden light and was as splendid as a new spring flower in all weathers.
The old house is the sanity of these hills, the ever present home amid such change. I can remember each brick for as far back as my memory goes, touch them, feel the texture that has greeted strong summers and hail stones with such dignity. How I love the blue door, some years weather worn and in others sporting a shiny new coat, and imagine its pride in showing the countryside it is still loved. In my daydreams I sit by it in a wicker chair listening to the village, of the chattering wildlife around. I imagine that it is my home, that the calling of the years somehow takes me there.
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