Jilted Farmhouse marks the beginning, or the end, of the lonning where I live.

Walking to and fro, say, Top Garden, The Tyres, Poppy’s Field, The Moon,

There is a sense of dilapidation.

Stone walls, tumbling.

Feral hedgerows and tree limbs, slopping.

Sycamore, woodbine and ivy uniting,

Forming brooding, creaking archways.


The iron bedstead in the hedgerow,

I bet that could tell some stories.