Her precious place of quiet and calm,
A life-earned safe retreat.
Small well kept home of simple charm,
Where with solitude would meet.

A bookshelf guest to sculpted words,
Of poetry and valued prose.
Vantage of garden and cared for birds,
Soft chair as lure to doze.

The sun kind falls on its southern face,
Soft paints each room with light.
A cosy timeless thought-filled space,
This cottage life-hopeful bright.

But now this setting is empty, still,
For its occupant is gone.
And yet, with sunshine does it fill,
Though no soul to shine upon.

Its books unknowing, their last time read,
Birds search in vain for seed.
A chair bereft of a sleepy head,
Its embrace; no more the need.

How poignant this was where she spent,
Her gentle autumn days.
Enjoying the pleasure its comforts lent,
And belonging it yet conveys.

She'll not be gracing its air again,
This vanished now fritillary.
But if a place some memory can retain,
There'll be a home here yet for Hilary.