labour of love

tucked back
behind overgrown shrubs
and bushes and trees
was this little cottage
right off a dirt track
three miles from a tiny village
near the edge
of the highlands of Scotland

it was love
from the moment we saw
the sturdy rock walls
the rotting thatched roof
and the wakening spring flowers
obviously  once a much loved home
even after neglect and abandon
it held it's grace and charm
still

for a tiny sum
we claimed ownership
of our lifetime dream

all the while
suffering laughs and derision
for buying "Widow March's Hut"

behind their backs we laughed too
for no amount of money
could pay for what we had just bought

home

after months of work
and many callouses and splinters
a beautiful haven was created
a place for babies and grandchildren
for ponies and baby chicks

the garden, was left a bit wild still
in honour of the cottage's past
while along the far fence
a profusion of trumpet vine
wrapped it's tendrils
over everything in it's path

throughout, wildflowers grew
in a mish mash of hue and texture
gaily painting the garden scene
in floral profusion of colour

our love built this sanctuary
nothing more
for without the love cultivated here
this would be only a house
made of rock and wood