24 August 2012
Crooked wooden cupboards surround a green-clad gas oven; warm to the touch with a full belly of the night's feast to come.
Utensils of all shapes and sizes line the sloped walls; decoration for the beating, pulsating heart of an old home.
Surrounded by sheep fields and rolling hills under a blanket of drizzle, this man-made structure blends in as if grown here; like an ancient oak tree.
Great, dark wooden beams bare the weight of the rooms above, rooms that have held joy, laughter and heartache as one.
And now my loved ones, my family, pour like blood into its empty veins. Flooding the old brick-walls with warmth...
Trouble is, the peace won't last...
Old Farmhouse • Opuss № I