Poetry

Sunday, 5 November 2023

Dream of a moor

 We went to a house on the edge of a moor

It was a hill top dale

And the gales that swore

It was an empty shell

Where the wind whistled and tore

And I thought from what hell

Had come the last war


The belongings pell-mell

Helter skeltered and scattered

Up the stairway along landing

And into the hall

We made our farewells thinking how this

House core

Once was a dwelling to a family of four


A scare crow stood watching as we were driving away

He was the last soft thing that I had seen that day

But his eyes they were dead and his heart made of hay

Never beat for the lost things that he had witnessed that day


Oh how can we see them? Our enemies of clay

When each shifting season

Covers their tracks runaway

I wish to have left them at least for the pay

Mutineed the bounty, but I found paradise in my way

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