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Posted Tuesday, June 12, 2007
The Lead Miner’s Cottage
The lead miners toil is etched in the walls,
Rough hewn and ageing with time.
And the brambles of summers long past lay asleep
In the dense undergrowth of their prime.
The blackbirds still sing as they sang long ago
In the May morning branches of yore;
And sweet honeysuckle still perfumes the air
As it twines itself over the door.
Of yesterdays children the garden knew well
And once rang to their shouts of delight;
And of yesterdays roses their graveyard can tell
How they once sweetly bloomed on the site.
But the paths overgrown from the door to the gate
And the windows are coated with grime;
And the chimney stopped smoking a long time ago,
And the roof sags and slopes out of line.
A stark wooden finger points to the sky,
And the board that broke off in a gale
Now lies in the garden, face down in the thorns
Proclaiming, `Cottage For Sale’.