Pots and Pans

In the oldest part of Bygone Town,

You’ll find the restaurant “Pots and Pans.”

It says on the sign above the door:

“Established 1654.”

Staff and owners you won’t see,

And that’s the strangest mystery,

At the restaurant namely: “Pots and Pans”

A business that three centuries spans.

Pots and pans,

Pans and pots,

Lots of pans,

And lots of pots.

Bubbling, boiling,

Bristling, broiling,

Frying, cooking,

Sizzling hot.

Pressures building,

Lids are lifting,

Steam escaping to the air.

Fragrant, fruity, aromatic.

Tempting and inviting.

Knives and forks,

Spoons and splayds,

Saucers, plates and bowls.

Cups and glasses, tall carafes-

Upon oak tables fall.

Flickering flames from candle glow

Casting light on bluestone walls,

Show portraits of the owners gone –

Overseeing work goes on.

Kettle whistles loud and frantic:

Restaurant’s open!

Come on in!

Come on in everyone!

Come and get it! Dinner’s done!

Soups and pies,

Casseroles,

Puddings, flans and that’s not all.

Tea and coffee,

Milk and honey.

The cost is just one crown in money.

Concealed by masks and hooded cloaks 

Are ghosts that keep the past awake –

Serving food to present folks

Of whom they won’t forsake.

A warm and homely atmosphere,

Engaging conversations,

Happy, merry, full of cheer;

These – the magic incantations.

“Pots and Pans”- three centuries old. 

No – the owners never sold.

It is a favourite haunt of mine

A charming place – where I love to dine.

Don’t Forget To Visit

I live at “Rose Cottage”, just up the road,

Then round the corner – there is no postcode.

It’s a little bit ramshackle – it has quite a slant.

Before the next storm I must fix it I chant. 

But first I will start with a sign for the gate –

All shiny and new – I won’t hesitate.

Then when that’s up I’ll begin on the cottage,

And my home will be sound when I’m in my dotage.

And I’ll know it by name and I’ll speak of it fondly…

You’ll know where to visit – there’s a sign on the gate…

“Rose Cottage”

About Louise:

“It is wonderful to have a creative writing assignment to look forward to every week. I thoroughly enjoy writing poetry in my spare time. I find inspiration in every day. But it is the weekly poetry prompt that motivates me to write one poem weekly”

Louise McCarthy. 

Counting Sheep

In the wee small hours I awoke from my dreams,

The bleating of sheep was the reason it seems,

They were outside my window making a racket,

So I rolled out of bed and put on my jacket.

I spoke to the flock assembled outside.

I said “Look I’m really most dreadfully tired.”

But they still remained bothered – so I counted each ewe,

Plus the rams and the lambs – one hundred and two.

“I see what you mean.”  I remarked to the flock.

“One lamb is missing.” – I glanced at the clock.

“It is well after midnight – it should be in bed.”

So for hours I looked. Then I looked in the shed.

And there on a sofa all cosy and snug,

Lay the little lost lamb under a rug,

Just where I’d left it twelve hours ago –

I’d spun it a yarn about sheep in the meadow.