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’.