the cottage was in a ditch,
if we’re being kind, a tiny valley;
you couldn’t see it on your approach
until you were on top of it.
A steep path led to its front door
(it was felt calling it scree would be rude)
with a door knocker so light
it produced a snuffle. People
would sigh to wonder what next.
It ended with them banging on the door.
They didn't know it had ended.
They waited hours, days sometimes,
sure that there was someone in,
someone as uneven as the walls,
a writer or at the very least a potter,
someone with urge to give new eyes on it all.
They waited hours, days sometimes,
sure that there was someone in,
until a lack of water drove them home
with a sore head. Then there was the couple
who refused to be unanswered.
Eventually they ran off a cliff
into the sea below.
There’s a little plaque half-way down,
they say.
-- Ewen Glass (he/him) is a screenwriter and poet from Northern Ireland who lives with two dogs, a tortoise and lots of self-doubt; his poetry has appeared in the likes of Okay Donkey, Maudlin House, HAD, Poetry Scotland and Ex-Puritan. His debut chapbook ‘The Art of Washing What You Can't Touch’ is published by Alien Buddha Press.