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.