(This town is based in Scotland)

This town - built near a brook,

Odd in its restoration,

Has more than one old look,

Upon its own foundation.

Outside, the creek runs south,

Through town - against trails blazed north,

Towards the channel’s mouth,

And through these fields it flows forth.

Near the bridge is a church,

Standing tall with its steeple,

Belittling the birch,

While meddling about are people.

Their laughter is silent,

Carried away by the wind,

Swallowed in ambience,

Near the brooks tightest bend.

The homes of the heather,

Are nestled beneath some hills,

Sheltered from the weather,

And warmed from any day’s chills.

For within these brick walls,

Ghosts have sung for innocence,

Pictures lace the short halls…

Antiques lie in abeyance.

So you’re lightly napping,

Cuddled up to my old couch,

While rain is tip-tapping,

And the clouds above us slouch. 

Descending is a dream,

One I must have seen before

A village by a stream,

That’s on its way to the shore.