There is an old house in that field there alone,
Paint and shingles near gone, grass and weeds wildly grown.
There�s no one to notice for twenty miles 'round,
Or to care when it crumbles down onto the ground.
Surely a family once named it as home,
But who were they, the people this place has once known?
That splintered doorframe, in the un-longed-for past,
Held a door, and I wonder who locked that door last.
No one has stepped through it for years, I can tell,
But some spiders and cows; I can see their marks well.
Except for the cow-pies all floor space is bare,
And each dry window pane contains cobwebs and air.
This shape of a house, weather-ravaged and gray,
Has sat empty till useless, so empty will stay.
No one can remember who lived here, or when,
Or will ever have reason to enter again.
|