The House That Remembers

Introduction to The House That Remembers

Some places do not forget. They hold the light of hands that tended flowers, the warmth of fires that burned long into winter evenings, the quiet stories of those who once called them home – even when the doors stand open, and the people have long since gone.

This poem began as nothing more than an idea: To walk a forgotten boreen, and to find a cottage that time had not broken, only set to rest. I drew the shape of it from a cottage I once knew as a young boy, the life that people lived there and the layout, the lines of its walls, the way the light fell through its windows — But the house that lives here has become its own thing. It is every cottage left to the fields, every door left ajar, even small things left behind that still holds a heartbeat of the life it knew.

For this piece, I chose to set the Irish language aside. It is not that it does not belong here — far from it — but the story needed to breathe on its own, plain and quiet, as the house itself stands. It speaks of what outlasts us: the mark we leave on stone, the scent of a rose that still climbs the lintel, the watch that stopped but never gave up its work.

It is not a poem about loss. It is a poem about memory — how the land, and the walls we build upon it, keep our stories safe, even when we are no longer there to tell them. This is a poem where a readers imagination can form their own images that fit this poem.

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Abandoned Cottage

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The House That Remembers






The boreen winds through gorse and thorn,
where bramble weaves a tangled screen — 
what lies beyond is softly worn,
 and slow to let itself be seen.



Beyond the thicket, green grown deep,
a garden lost to fern and grass;
and there the cottage stands still, asleep,



Walls hold their shape, strong and straight,
 though ivy climbs to claim its share;
panes wait behind boarded gate —
No ruin here, just empty air. 


Yet old sweet rose has broken free, 
it climbs the lintel, deep and true —
spills crimson blooms where hands once tended,
its scent still lingers by the door.  



Close by the step, worn and plain,
two letters pressed in stone still show —
set deep when cement was new as rain,
before the years began to flow.


One board has slipped a little aside,
to leave a gap no hand has forced;
 no rush, no call, no need to bide —
the house does not turn away, 



Doors stand ajar, no lock, or key,
two rooms lie bare of bed and shelf —
a coat hangs loose, pale with dust,
left where it was, untouched by time. 


But turn to right, and there it keeps:
the old armchair, still set in place;
the hearth clean-swept, where ash still sleeps —
as if the fire had only just gone cold. 



Half-hid where cushion meets wood, 
a silver watch lies still and cold —
no tick or tock, its work well done,
its hands held fast where time was told.






Copyright © 2026 Pat Fitzgerald 
All Rights Reserved 

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Quote of the Day:
The land does not merely wait; it breathes in the weight of centuries, holding its breath until a voice rises to give shape to what the soil has quietly witnessed and stored.

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Thank You for joining me on this journey of writing and discovery. Poetry, for me, is a continuous learning process. A way of finding my own voice and writing style and exploring the beauty of words.

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Pat Fitzgerald