Down winding roads of single tracks lies the little white house. The lanes seem carved into the earth as walls of fern and moss rise up to either side. Primroses peak out from the heavy green, accenting the wild growth and over the stone bridge the little white house lies, slightly tumble down, with ancient oaks partially hiding it from view.
A babbling brook lies at the foot of the little white house lazily trickling between the lichen charmed boulders. The white stone remains settled at the bottom of the engraved valley amongst the tulgey wood. Sun beams fall, scattered by the oaken branches, lighting the windows framed in black.
The house stretches out comfortably into the garden enclosed by a picket white fence, stretching onwards into a meadow overcome with wild flowers. Pleasant winds blow the Daffodils that bob in an ocean of greens and yellows. The shade hunts the sun spots as the meadow gives way to forest following the progress of the brook searching for sea not far away. The forest whispers of dark and light, with secrets known to no man. A thousand adventures in a thousand moments.
Little house I dreamt of you.
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