Here

An old house, sitting
upon a lonely hill,
surrounded by gray,
abandoned, dead cotton.

It beckons,
calls from the past.
Voices long gone,
people, pets, children
running along the lane...
Ghosts of antiquity.

I ache as the high grass bows,
the bushes, un-kept and wild,
the bleak unpainted walls,
black, dirt covered and chipped.

Here,
The winds are the only voices,
screaming, 'Where did they go? '
The family who lived, laughed, and loved here?

Here,
Where now live the mice, ants and birds.

Here,
Where the sun rises and sets,
Upon an old, abandoned house.

by Sandra Osborne

Comments (1)

You did a good job ofr evoking the loneliness and the memories. I liked the poem.