Miles Lawson : $b or, the Yews

Nestled beneath the craggy peaks of Westmoreland lies an ancient farm‑house, its low stone porch wrapped in ivy and jasmine, its chimneys puffing blue peat smoke. Two towering yew trees dominate the garden, their twisted branches forming a permanent twilight that shades the flagstones leading to the front door. Inside, the kitchen hums with the scent of smoked bacon and dried herbs, while a handmade wooden seat—carved by the eldest son—awaits the sister who rests there while she sews in the summer light.

At the heart of the home, Mrs. Lawson tends the hearth and a modest herb garden, preparing teas and remedies that have earned her a reputation across the dales. Her patchwork rocking chair, stitched with colors that map the milestones of her life, cradles her as she reads from a well‑worn family Bible, letting Scripture guide her through quiet strength. Around her, the simple rhythms of daily chores and familial love paint a portrait of steadfast devotion in a landscape that seems untouched by time.