Down a lonely track,

fittingly at the end,

beside a watery hollow,

from whence this piece was penned,

a ricket picket fence

stood feebly watching on,

waiting for matchstick visitors,

who never came along.

Perhaps the stand of soldier trees

did more than mark the way.

so adding to the solitude.

the loneliness. the grey.

In front an ashen sky this day.

blown in from God knows where.

The Lonely House, the only house.

sits quietly in despair.