Out walking around the town I came upon this old farm on the Wheatsheaf Road. I have passed it hundreds of times on foot and in the car. Its bones still standing against the wind. I stopped, hair tossed by the early Autumn winds, and thought that old thought “if only these walls could talk”
What stories they would tell, of love and laughter, of worry and weather, of sick animals and faithful dogs curled by the stove in a kitchen where the fire never died. The kitchen, heart of a house where a mammy once held the waking world close.
Now only silence keeps them company. The fields are greener for the rain, the hills cradle the ruin gently, and time moves on, slow, steady, forgiving nothing, forgetting nothing.
There’s a melancholy beauty here, the stillness of abandonment, the weight of memory, the echo of lives once hard-lived, once loved, I walked on, down the road to nowhere getting closer to my own kitchen.