This jilted farmhouse marks the beginning, or the end, of the lane where I live.
Walking to and from, 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 bedsteads in the hedgerow,
I bet they could tell some stories.