Lotmans Cottage

The dark wooden door is swollen
fattened on rain.
I throw myself against it
swearing as the wreath nail punctures my skin
a squeal and groan consoles me.
I am in, a wave greets me.
David’s wellies, caked in pig muck
roast dinner, beef with Yorkshires
a hint of Anais Anais and Mum.
Little Will cat kneading with pins,
on the sheepskin throw.