The lane winds on, it’s overgrown with grass

Too dark for daisies, ivy crawls through grass

The rusty swing stands creaking like a ghost

The rabbit hutch sits empty in the grass

The gate hangs off its hinges, hesitates

Mildew adorns glass panes, like slimey grass

Children don’t come now, keeping a secret

Sweets are no longer hidden in the grass

The hall is dark and hollow as a tomb

Cascades of junk mail pile up like cut grass

Plastic flowers gather dust by windows

No one comes here since he last cut the grass

I pass by, guilty, look the other way

We all do, now he’s safely under grass