The pebbles of the drive crunch under the tires,
The garage door holds open its maw, waiting.
There is a light tawny cat sitting up on unused wood
Tilting her head, her ears asking to meet the friendly hand again
She tries to follow up the steps, but turns back.
Only one animal passes the gate, a dog; old now,
But still as hyper and hungry for attention as ever.
Inside sits a bench, crafted of broken porch wood
Care, says that work, made by hands no longer around.
Further in shows more of the same
Made by the newer fingers,
For the youngest of them all.
In the middle sits a big leather chair
Cracked just slightly at the arms and at the back
It creaks to be sat in, only causing a small shiver of cold
Later to be warm, to embrace
And here it stays to say
Welcome, to the Mott’s place