Hot Cross Buns

    
      
Could I smell hot-cross buns,    
the hearth still warm?      
The kettle on the hearth cold      
windows gone and door,      
took the kettle by its handle      
rusty, loose,as was the bottom,     
no water boiled for many a year.      
None for ever again.  
loneliness complete,     
old man and  lovers gone.   
left behind ghostly memories      
dancing in the half-lit hut.      
They were happy days at times      
like us they laughed and sang      
made the place all cosy.     
Then the old man died      
as did the fire,  
chair,table,pots and pans      
bed with over-coat for duvet.      
So the lovers came .    
I saw them both but once;      
the empty hut a luxury      
nowhere to hang their clothes      
no blankets against the cold. 
Lovers can't be choosers.      
They had a need of each      
searched and having found      
held the moment sacred.      
that,which each, we know.