No paint on the planks
They make up the walls
Of battered old buildings
Where nobody calls
Dust for the street
When it blows makes you cough
Beside every building
A rail and horse trough
Nobody lives here
Long since turned to seed
A home for dust devils
And the odd tumbleweed
© 2008 David Threadgold
Rambling Riddles & Rhymes
fine imagery and great riddles and rhymes as always David...10/10
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A well written feel of old and deserted. Kind regards Ann