This old abandoned house
once filled with love and laughter
now sits alone at the end of the road
with no one to tell its tales to
ultimate panic queen
|Peter lost his old spade in his wood ten years ago|
|Not much use now|
|Actually a shovel|
by God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
The son does something different
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Cosmopolitan mosses likewise salve
sidewalk cracks, crumbling walls.
The spider, dropping down from twig,
Unfolds a plan of her devising,
A thin premeditated rig
To use in rising.
The leaf is dead, the yearning past away;Alfred Tennyson
|In life, a mere weed|
The wall is builded of field-stones great and small
Tumbled about by frost and storm
Shaped and polished by ice and rain and sun:
Some flattened, grooved, and chiseled
Over the years, I oft have wondered
was I right to leave the old place
where I found security and life.
Peter Williams was inspired by January’s hoar frost. He provides lots of pictures that appear in my posts. You can find them in the theme column articles he has written.
His garden is not always as pristine as I pretend