We are battened against winter storms;
snug inside with our hatches fastened.
The garden is bare and would not conceal
strangers approaching – a foraging fox
a pheasant seeking crumbs or the post lady.
I snuggle under feathered duvet with no
apologies to once-flying geese and ducks.
This was a weaver’s home – thick stone
walls, wide windows and space for a loom;
The chimney, now a boiler flue, had
pots simmering, logs crackling, clothes drying
and dogs stealing the warmest spots.
I don’t need to shift the stones, use a
metal-detector or tear off plaster.
We feel your presence, your hardship,
your humour, the simple pleasures you found,
hear the cries of children, clucking chickens,
clump of feet on stone. I run my hand along
the curve in the window ledge where you sat,
using the last light. This house has friendly
ghosts – forget the storm at the door.
John Bainton, weaver, came to live here in our terraced cottage when it was built in 1799. Next door was a stonemason, to the other side a carpenter; beyond them lived a weaver and another and yet others plying their craft, making the broadcloth for which Bradford on Avon was famous.