The Lodge

Like a pill in a lonely dark box,
The Lodge sits.  A hodge podge,
Black and white box, made from
local rocks and stuffing, cobbed
And Victorian.  Faux tudor, eludes
Public gaze as it hides from the admiration
of unwanted stares.
Cut in to the cover,
Shaded from the open fields, friends
In trees and leaves, protected.
It is islanded, lit by a saving light
Bright from the tales of mystics.

What was here before, now made
The house stand tall on a wooded
Foundation, mulch, twigs, make a
Sturded soil.  Men that toiled to
Build this stoney lodge, hodge podge
In the cut cover of the woodland.

Haunted, these caliginous overhead
Rafters sway and eddy in the wind,
Spitting from the moors, breaths
Exhale through bark clad columns,
Standing like ancient brick work ,
Spotted across the floor of the forest.
Hunters hid from the cold and dark,
And here, gutted of gizzard and left
to hang, the hares and deer would peer
Through bulging dead eyes, hung by
hind leg on the door.  But now a home,
Secluded as it eludes the unwated
Admiration of the public.