The Humble Cottage

[Maureen K Clifford]

This was inspired by a photo of a very old lady tending her garden outside a beautiful Melbourne cottage - the type of house that I personally relate to - bullnose roof, one of those old fashioned wire gates with curlicues, roses alongside the path leading up to the the wrap around verandah. The old ladies face was softened and wrinkled with age but her eyes were still lively and she had those roses well and truly licked into shape

The little house was as neat as a pin as was the garden and you could just tell the house was a home and had so many stories it could tell and the little lady was a strong family matriarch..It seemed there was a story begging to be told... so I did and then put together the illustration for it as well..


Edited version

The Humble Cottage. Maureen Clifford © 10/12


One old and humble cottage upon a Melbourne street
with concrete path well worn by many years of passing feet.

A bull nosed iron verandah, tin roof painted ox- blood red.
Peace roses round the front porch, white daisies nod their head.
It’s owner now was getting old but she’d lived here for years
and raised her children in this home and faced her greatest fears.
Her husband called to fight for king and country years ago,
the man returned, but not the same – a leg lost in Bordeaux.

She struggled on over the years her kids grew tall and strong.
They married and raised families, her bloodlines carried on;
with grandchildren for her to nurse and great grandchildren now.
She was content in her small home. Good health this did allow.
And now she tried to shake the fear that she had thought long past
when one Grandson came round to say that he had at long last
been told that his deployment to Afghanistan was here.
He thought it an adventure – she thought of war with fear.

But not a tremble in her voice nor tear in her blue eye
gave him the slightest inkling that his Gran would weep and cry
the minute that he left the house – for she’d been here before.
She sent a healthy man away, he returned scarred by war.
He too was fit and young and strong – a bloke just in his prime.
None thought the war would last so long – six years was a long time.


Today she tends her roses though her eyes are getting dim
and sits on her verandah reading a letter from him.
He tells her all is well, he thinks he’s coping rather well
but they are plagued by shortages, desert warfare is hell.
It feels like time’s receded and the letter that she holds
is one from her own soldier boy, a young bloke brave and bold.
And as she reads, tears seep and trickle down her lined face.
Her skin now aged parchment, crumpled sepia framed with lace.


She holds the letter to her breast, and blue eyes softly weep
she prays her God will keep him safe – her God now grants her sleep
on the shady verandah with painted bull nosed roof of red
where drifts of sweet rose petals fall around her feet and head.
The traffic roar is far away – she hears it not at all.
She hears her children’s voices softly echoing in the hall.

The front gate swings on rusted hinge – it’s open, set to greet
the loved ones who return again to home on Melbourne Street.





rThe Humble Cottage.
Maureen Clifford © 10/12


One old and humble cottage upon a Melbourne street
with concrete path well worn by many years of passing feet.

A bull nosed iron verandah, tin roof in ox- blood red.
Peace roses round the front porch, white daisies nod their head.
It’s owner now was getting old but she’d lived here for years
and raised her children in this home and faced her greatest fears.
A husband called to fight for king and country years ago
the man returned, but not the same – war struck a bitter blow.

She struggled on over the years her children tall and strong
and all married eventually, bloodlines continued on;
with grandchildren for her to nurse and great grandchildren now.
She was content here in her home, or as time will allow.
And now she tried to shake the fear that she had thought long past
when one Grandson came round to say that he had at long last
been told that his deployment to Afghanistan was here.
He thought it an adventure – she thought of war with fear.

But not a tremble in her voice nor tear in her blue eye
gave him the slightest inkling that his Gran would weep and cry
the minute that he left the house – for she’d been here before.
She sent a healthy man away, he returned with health poor.
He too was fit and young and strong – a bloke just in his prime
None thought the war would last so long – six years was a long time.


Today she tends her roses though her eyes are getting dim
and sits on her verandah reading a letter from him.
He tells her everything's OK - he’s coping rather well
but they are plagued by shortages, desert warfare is hell.
Time has receded it’s as if the letter that she holds
is one from her own soldier boy, a young bloke brave and bold.
And as she reads, tears seep and trickle down her lined face.
Her skin now aged parchment, paper thin, framed with white lace.

She holds the letter to her breast, and blue eyes softly weep
she prays her God will keep him safe – her God now grants her sleep
on the shady verandah with its bull nosed roof of red
where drifts of sweet rose petals fall around her feet and head.
She traffic roar is far away – she hears it not at all
She hears her children’s voices echoing in the hall.

One old white humble cottage upon a Melbourne street
stands waiting, front gate open to welcome loved ones feet

[Maureen K Clifford]

I have edited this one hopefully for the better - hearing today of the death of Dame Elisabeth Murdoch at 103 a lady who also loved her garden and her roses. A grand old dame who will be sadly missed by many.