THE OLD LOG COTTAGE BY FIONA CUMMINGS

THE OLD LOG COTTAGE
BY FIONA CUMMINGS
It looks so out of place, some say a disgrace. Among houses standing proud his house got lost in the crowd. But I remember when, his logs were so new. Such a beautiful view among oaks so tall and bluebells small. In autumn leaves like golden coins did fall and we swung from the branches, making wishes near the well, stealing kisses. But then the strong soldier, who now is much older, used to chase us away all we wanted to do was play. But he told our parents he fears cement would eat up his world. Never did I know just what he meant. Nore did I think, I would live in his wood. They said they would make bad good, by modernising this area where I live in my house. Once only occupied by the man, his family and the odd field mouse.

Now bricks replace twigs. Plastic Christmas trees pretend families and a candle a glow, lit by a battery, and surrounded by fake snow.

Everyone ignored him, I decided to visit just on a whim. As I stood by his gate. I did wait, remembering as a child, how twas us he seemed to hate. Now an adult, I’m sure I’m with fault, but I wanted to pay a visit, to a place which to me was once exquisite. Beneath valleys and hills, which once was a palace surrounded by golden daffodils, whereas children we got thrills, to see who could collect the most apples.

Knocking on his door, peering through the crooked window, to see a bare floor. Walls needing paint, in a cottage that was so quaint.

Between my trembling fingers, I brought logs for his fires and Rosie red apples, just like I used to admire. How would he feel? What would he say? Would he remember the little boys who used to play?

He opened the door, staring at me through ice blue eyes, in shock, or surprise? He asked
me to come in, through his door so thin. Sideways I entered, being careful not to splinter. By the fire, we sat, the flames flickered. Curled up was a cat on a cushion that has seen better days. But this was his way, he had his day. So, was his life over? Had he given up? As he poured me a hot drink, from an old china cup. He told me his woes, and where he intends to go. His wife he will follow, when it’s his time to meet with the divine. His beliefs, though he has suffered grief, amazed me. I was saddened he didn’t even have a Christmas tree. He asked, me? For what reason, It’s the season, I dared to suggest. My case I shall wrest, he continued. As he turned to the view, in his back garden that can’t be seen from the world so new, at his front, he began to point, they couldn’t touch my land, as his hand shook. He went to an old shelf where he picked up a book. Take a look, these are pictures how it used to be, life for me. There were photographs of his family, then a tear kissed his cheek. He found it hard to speak. As he beck end me to follow. He was so mellow, as we went outside. Where the weeping willow, looked as if to cry. My heart broke, as he cleared his throat and spoke. Here lay my family under a special tree. I had never seen such an enormous firtree

Once again, I was that little boy, heart beating fast with such adventure and joy. Even in December, I could remember autumn days, no longer a haze, I stood amazed among the trees, oaks and wooden tables bespoke, watching patterns in the sky from the chimney smoke.

Did you make these? I asked with such glee, these old bones won’t let me, as he pointed to his knees. But when you were a lad, you weren’t doing bad, I was just trying to protect this beautiful land. The old oaks were cut down to the ground where they started their life. Back then I had a Son and a wife. I collected the unwanted timber it was there I began my labour. Clean living was over, end of mistletoe and clover, oh I did love her, but I lost them both. As roads replaced woodland, it was too much. Modern times. Took them from me. Needles from pines, attacked me. My heart was broken. He filled up with emotion.

I made a promise, I would return, alas I have lessons to learn. I never knew what was so true as a child, running around so wild, inside this man’s heart his world would part and he could see that right in front of his eyes.

Now no disguise for all to see, such a painful memory, but to me, he wasn’t a disgrace, nor out of place, but a man who knew what was right, who wanted to see stars still at night, see a future so bright and hadn’t given up the fight, as no one would take his land at the back, with his company of his well cared for cat.

© Fiona Cummings