Just got back to internet connectivity, but I have been writing constantly for the last six hours. Here is the first one, penned down as I wandered in Anne Hathaway’s cottage in Stratford upon Avon. The words in brackets are things I accidentally missed out in my haste to write, but I did not want to cheat either.

 

The bus halts and I wake up to see

The last surviving Tudor cottages

Dark wood on white stone

With thatched roofs and no chimneys

In one of these, there stayed a young shepherdess

Beautiful no doubt, with a modest upbringing

In a thatched roof [topped] black and white house

With two rooms, a garden ad a brick lane path

Where her poet lover trekked up everyday

Undoubtedly, in anticipation of a warm kitchen with a candlelit supper and what naturally ensued thereafter

 

Standing in that kitchen, I see a grandfather clock

Frozen in time.

I rub my eyes

Did I wake up or am I in a rustic dream?

 

Then I walk into a garden and see a Pokemon Hunt sign

And I know I am far from the love of times past