The Oast House

Around the bend in the road, past the hills and trees. There is a place where tea is still on offer. Where the oast reads 'old barn teahouse'. The red brick standing still and true after years of rain and gray skies. The garden green with lush grass and thick brambles. Noises reduced to mice whisper and horses sighs. Inside, beams of English oak and white wash walls, tie loosely the memories of history. The oast house converted from a farmer who used to hold his feed here. The doors, creak and groan from years of marching cattle. I see it there. When I close my eyes. I can feel the warm wind, finding it's way through my windows. I can feel the brick cool to my touch. I can smell the sweet grass and passing years. In my dreams I stand there, in the back garden. I stand with kids laughing around me. The garden lush with new crops, my wellies stuck with mud. In my dreams my body rests here and pauses here. In my dreams I can see the thick beams, weathered and aged inside the oast. Why so clearly can I hear floor boards creaking below my feet? It was just a moment, a passing moment of thought. Yet years after, I'm almost certain it was just yesterday when I pulled into the drive. Feeling like the oceans and cream was my welcome home mat. So many memories I never made, the oast house still calls my name. Asking to fill its walls with love and joy. Pleading to embrace it's charm and nuances. The oast house a place I visit often, if only in my thoughts. One day, perhaps, maybe. The old building with tea on offer and oceans to embrace will be my soft landing in another passing chapter.