Hovel

In the quiet hush of a cobble‑strewn lane
A humble hovel stands, weathered but true,
Its roof, a patchwork of blue‑tinted slate,
And the wind, it whistles what it will through the woodwork.

Within the creaking frame, the heart of a life,
A chipped green bucket, a tea‑pot on the hob,
Strewn with yesterday’s dreams, the nights’ forgotten bread,
A single lamp, flickering, echoing a lover’s sob.

The front door, a mildewed maple, slants with a sigh,
Its hinges bowing like an old fisherman’s tale,
A jar of marmalade, a biscuit on a plate,
An ever‑present comfort amid the rusted rail.

Outside, the street hums in low bass and chatter,
The buses roll past, the night bus turns red,
Yet inside the hovel, silence presses, gentle,
Man and hope sit fast, holding their own stead.

Though wrecked, wretched, the hovel knows a name:
It is a cheeky little bungalow,
A refuge, a bar, a boozer, a shade of green,
The kingdom where bravado sits, on a sofa.