With the heat of the sun,
As it fiercely beats down,
There's no shade to be won,
In this old Shanty Town.
The rough row of shacks,
To be seen up and down,
Are riddled with cracks,
In this old Shanty town.
The winds, blowing hard,
Send the tumbleweed down,
To take over a graveyard,
In this old Shanty Town.
And weird echoes resound,
Through doors broken down,
And no welcome is found,
In this old Shanty Town.
Once a horse and its rider,
Came sauntering down,
In the hope of cool cider,
In this old Shanty Town.
That's when there were folk,
Who walked up and down,
And slept and awoke,
In this old Shanty Town.
But these times have flown,
And it's drab and rundown,
And one's all on one's own,
In this old Shanty Town.
© Ernestine Northover
A factory of Wwellcoordinated imagery makes this ghost town of sorts spring alive in masterful grandueur.....as always, & for what else should i expect... superior work, Ernestine! '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''FRANK/FJR
Dear Ernestine This has a rythmic flow to it, all touched by an air of loneliness, you have such a fine art about you Love duncan X
Ernestine, very balladic. This would work well placed to music. A well portrayed environment. Grand.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Great poem Ernestine, loved the rhyme and structure and beautiful imagery too. Love, Andrew xx